


The Day That We Do

by DarlingJenny



Category: Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-11-01 18:46:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 59,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10927815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlingJenny/pseuds/DarlingJenny
Summary: If the price that Dastan has to pay for the love and kindness and comfort his family has given him over the years is a political marriage to Princess Tamina, that's not so much to ask, is it? / An AU arranged marriage retelling of the events of the movie.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was prompted by two moments that have recently stood out to me in the scene where Sharaman dies. First, often I forget that Sharaman's last act in life is to declare Dastan and Tamina betrothed. Why didn't they do more with that in the movie? That could have been comedy/romantic tension gold, if you ask me. And this got me wondering how it would have affected the rest of the movie if the betrothal had played a bigger part, or been of a longer standing, or even if they'd actually been forced to marry each other (I am a sucker for the arranged marriage romance novel trope, I must admit).
> 
> But for that to happen, Sharaman would have had to survive a little longer, and that's where we come to the second moment that stands out to me: I think it's a bit odd that Sharaman happily accepts the prayer robe of Alamut's regent and tries it on. We know that Sharaman's a religious man who respects the faith of others to the point that he forbade his sons from invading Alamut because it's holy, and he considered the invasion to be wrong and wished Dastan had prevented it, so it seems to me that he would consider religious vestments stolen from an Alamutian leader to be a poor gift.
> 
> So then I wondered, what if Sharaman hadn't put on the robe, and had therefore survived, and Dastan and Tamina's betrothal had then become official? How would the movie have played out from there? I found it a fascinating idea. So I wrote it. I'm not sure of the number of chapters yet, but it will be at least 8-10.

o.o.o

"A great man would've stopped the attack from happening at all. A great man would've stopped what he knew to be wrong, no matter who was ordering it. The boy I saw in that square was capable of being more than just good, but of being great."

It's amazing how that disappointed tone, that gentle admonishment, hits Dastan like a blow from a hammer. For a moment he's a young boy again, desperate to prove himself to his new father, not because he's rich and powerful, but because he's the only father figure Dastan's ever had and because there's something about his kind voice and his immense wisdom and the sparkle in his eye that would have made Dastan love him even if the king had been only a poor commoner.

Vowing, for what must be the thousandth time since meeting Sharaman, to be a better son to please his father, Dastan nods and changes the subject. "Well, in the meantime, I have a gift for you."

And Sharaman knows he's dodging the topic—he always knows—and he laughs and lets Dastan move on to the new conversation. "Some questioned the wisdom of my bringing a boy from the streets into my family," he announces to the room at large as Bis comes forward with the gift. "I saw a boy whose blood wasn't noble, but whose character was: a king in spirit."

"Thank you, Father. May I present the prayer robe of Alamut's regent?"

The light in his father's eyes dims just a little as the embroidered box is opened, and Dastan knows that somehow he's messed up again. "Thank you, Dastan," Sharaman says after a moment's hesitation. "You are very courteous to think of giving me a gift."

He nods to one of his guards, who closes up the box again. Nearby, Dastan sees his uncle Nizam blink a little, as if surprised, and then call out cheerfully, "You aren't going to honor your son's gift by trying it on?" Dear Uncle, always so ready to look out for his youngest nephew.

Sharaman only smiles. "Such a beautiful garment—with all the wine being passed around, I'd hate to risk spilling any on it."

It's a convincing-sounding reason, and everyone in the room seems to accept it at face value, but Dastan knows there's more to the story than that. So under the cover of the commotion of the guards taking the box from Bis to carry it from the room, he leans closer to his father. "You didn't like the gift?"

Sharaman smiles at his son. "I know it was kindly meant," he says quietly, so no one can hear. "But holy vestments taken during a potentially unprovoked invasion of a holy city . . ."

Dastan's face falls. No wonder it didn't occur to him; he's never been as religious as his father, and he doesn't think of these things in the same way. But now that the king says it aloud, it does seem a poor choice of gift for such a spiritually minded king.

"I know it was kindly meant," his father repeats, a little louder, by way of encouragement. Then he raises his voice again, including the whole room in the conversation. "What can I grant you in return?"

This is Dastan's cue—his one job at this party. He signals the guards at the door, and a moment later the princess strides confidently into the room, a glittering star of gold and white shining in a dark expanse of Persian robes. She's an absolute terror, haughty and imperious and headstrong and far too proud, but Dastan's honest enough to admit that he finds her stunningly beautiful. Too bad that lovely face is accompanied by such an acerbic personality.

"May I present the princess Tamina? Tus wishes to make a union with her people through marriage. It is my deepest wish that this win your approval."

Sharaman looks as stunned at meeting the princess as everyone else has been, but he recovers enough to deliver a sincere compliment to Alamut. "In all my travels, I have never looked upon a more beautiful city, your highness."

Princess Tamina apparently does not feel the need to respond with similar politeness. "You should have seen it before your horde of camel-riding illiterates descended upon it." And Dastan can't help smiling, even as he wonders if this girl values her own safety at all. She might be irritable, she might be crazy, but she's certainly not a coward. He respects that, though he'd certainly never tell her.

And Sharaman seems to feel the same, based on the look he gives her. "Clearly she will make a fine queen," he says, and everyone else laughs. But then something unexpected happens. "But Tus already has enough wives. You, Dastan, might take fewer chances if such a jewel awaited you in your chamber."

Dastan blinks. Is he saying—

"The princess of Alamut will be your first wife."

Yes, he is saying that, and Dastan can do nothing more than stare in surprise. Wife? Princess Tamina? Bad enough to be tied down to any domestic situation right now, but to be married to Princess Tamina, who has an acidic tongue that she never seems to stop using, who has no love of Persia or its royal family— ( _To be married to Tamina,_  says a traitorous voice in his head, _who is more beautiful than any woman in the Persian Empire and who stands fearless and defiant before the mightiest king in the world_ —)

The princess's composure doesn't break, but she blinks rapidly a few times, and then she glances over at Dastan, and then down at . . . down at his hip, or perhaps the Alamutian dagger on his belt, it seems? This is not the first time he's seen her look at that spot. Very odd.

"What say you, Dastan?" When there's no response, Sharaman chuckles at his son's expression. "He plunges into a hundred foes without thought, but before marriage, he stands frozen with fear! And yet there are those who say he's not yet wise."

The attention—the betrothal—are too much for Dastan, and he turns to Bis. "I need a drink."

But Sharaman stays him with a look, then turns back to Princess Tamina. "I hope this arrangement meets with your approval, your highness," he says: he's not asking her consent, precisely, but he's giving her some sense of control over what happens.

Tamina stares the king down, and for the first time that evening, her mask seems to fall a little. But another glance at Dastan—at his hip again?—seems to strengthen her resolve. "It is acceptable," she says, with the tiniest incline of her head.

"Then we shall meet to discuss the arrangements tomorrow," the king declares, and shoots a look at the guards around Tamina that sets them to bustling her out of the room.

Dastan is left standing in the crowd with a snickering Bis at his side. Five minutes ago, he was free and unencumbered, and now he's betrothed to a woman who clearly hates him. He stares at the crowd a moment as they move on to other business; then he turns to Bis. "Now I really need a drink."

o.o.o

Dastan wakes tired and hungover the next morning, having drunk a truly heroic amount of wine last night in the hopes that somehow it would make his problems go away. It never works, but sometimes he likes trying.

At least he's fortunate in that the first person he runs into when he leaves his tent is exactly the person he set out to find: Tus, who is very serene and very forgiving about the fact that Dastan set out to get approval for Tus to marry Tamina but ended up betrothed to her instead.

"I've heard reports of the party," he says. "I know you tried and that Father surprised you with his decision."

"I know you wanted—"

"She is a rare beauty," Tus breaks in, "but Father makes a good point: I already have three wives; it's time you found your first one. She will make an excellent choice."

"I was not seeking this out," Dastan says. "This seems a poor time for me to marry. My duty to Persia, to the army . . ."

"It's possible to do your duty and have a wife at the same time," Tus points out. "Look at Garsiv and me; we each married our first wives ages ago. Besides, what about your duty to your family? My children could use some new cousins to play with, and Father would love to have more grandchildren to spoil, and when my Shapur becomes king after me, it would please me to know that he had military leaders and advisers around him who take after their father: who are brave and loyal and . . . climb walls like monkeys."

Dastan laughs, even as his chest feels warm. Tus and Sharman and even Garsiv have been loving enough that he long ago stopped worrying that they were going to tire of him and send him back to the streets, but even so, there's a tiny part of him that still needs and craves these moments of assurance that he is wanted, not simply tolerated.

"I hadn't even been thinking about children," he admits. "That's a rather frightening thought. But you're right; Father would love new grandchildren to dote on." Children. His and Tamina's children . . . best not to think about it.

Fortunately Tus changes the subject. "While apologies are being made, I believe I owe you one: Bis told me that Father had reservations about the gift you gave him, and as I am the one who passed it on to you, I feel responsibility for that."

"No apology needed," Dastan assures him. "You were trying to help, and it was a very regal gift. It's just . . ."

"None of us thought enough about how Father would feel," Tus agrees. "I should have thought it through."

"Really, don't apologize. And thank you for the gift, even if Father had mixed feelings about it. I know it was meant as a kindness."

Tus smiles and claps his brother on the shoulder. "And now, little brother, Father would like to see you as soon as possible. Something about wedding contract negotiations?" And he grins as Dastan's face falls.

o.o.o

Sharaman and Dastan take their midday meal in the palace with the princess and a few advisers, to discuss and sign the marriage contract.

"Don't look so nervous," Sharaman chuckles as they wait for the Alamutians to arrive. "This is a joyous occasion. You don't know how much I've been looking forward to the day you wed; it will be good for you, to have . . . an anchor, so to speak. Family life steadies a man."

"Yes, but you've met Princess Tamina," Dastan mutters, running his thumb absent-mindedly along the hilt of his newly acquired dagger, which he's taken to wearing nearly constantly. "Do you think she's really the steadying type?"

Sharaman simply laughs. "The princess is perfect for you," he says. "You need someone with spirit enough to fight you when you need it." His expression grows nostalgic. "She reminds me very much of my dear Pantea: the same fire, the same will of steel."

Dastan's heard stories enough of Pantea, Tus and Garsiv's mother, to feel as though he knows her, even though she'd passed away before he ever came to the palace. In addition to being Sharaman's first, best beloved wife, she'd also been the only of his three wives to bear him any children who survived past infancy.

"I suppose I find that a comforting thought," he admits reluctantly. Not comforting enough, though, to set him at ease. It's not that he's against marriage; he believes in it very much, actually. It's that he'd thought he'd have more notice and more say before he wed; it's that he'd thought his betrothed wouldn't glare at him as though trying to set fire to him with the force of her disdain; it's that he wonders whether Princess Tamina knows that he's not really royal blood and whether knowing it would change her opinion about him.

But maybe he should take Princess Tamina's glaring off his list of things he's concerned about, because when she comes in, exquisitely adorned in white and gold and flanked by her two advisers, her expression and her greetings are calm, even pleasant. She gives Dastan a small smile and says she hopes he's comfortable here in Alamut, and maybe this should put him at ease but instead it makes him suspicious. Maybe she'd simply been in a poor mood yesterday? Maybe she's decided she had better make amends with the Persians now that she was to intermarry with them? Anything's possible, Dastan supposes. But all he knows is that this smiling princess is nothing like the firebrand who yesterday called him brutal and without honor, and he can't rid himself of the feeling that she's up to something.

If she is, though, she keeps it well hidden, discussing the wedding placidly with Sharaman. It will be held here in Alamut, as Sharaman concedes when Tamina says she'd prefer to be married at home, and will be a mix of Persian and Alamutian traditions, as Sharaman believes in tolerance of others' beliefs. The princess agrees easily with their future living arrangements—the plan is that she will return to Nasaf with Dastan—with only one caveat: that they stay in Alamut for at least a month after the wedding so that she can make arrangements for what will happen to her city after she leaves, and so that they can await the results of Tus's search, which she maintains will yield no fruit. Sharaman clearly doesn't see the need for this—Alamut is now under Persia's protection, and she can still make decisions as needed from Nasaf and visit often, as the two cities are only two day's ride apart—but he agrees graciously. He stays silent on the subject of Tus's search, and Dastan knows him well enough to know he's torn between hoping for Persia's sake that forges are found, and hoping for the princess's sake that they are not. Dastan's surprised to find that he feels the same way; things will get rather more complicated for Princess Tamina if it is proven that she sold weapons to Kosh, and somehow he doesn't want that for her.

Either way, it is agreed that a month after the marriage, the new couple will return to Nasaf. Dastan tries to imagine the princess in the palace he now calls home, and fails. He tries to imagine her welcoming him home with an embrace and a kiss after he's been away at war, and fails. What he does successfully imagine, quite clearly, is her poisoning his wine glass and smiling serenely as he dies. But he should stop thinking like this; she's been nothing but pleasant all through the meeting.

The biggest surprise of the meeting (after Princess Tamina's sudden polite behavior, of course) is the timeline of the wedding. Sharaman thinks it should happen as soon as possible, and Princess Tamina agrees.

The way it happens is this: Sharaman explains, "My sons came this direction to deal with the warlord Kosh, and they might be called away again at any moment. Better to act quickly, before Dastan's military duties call him away again."

Princess Tamina looks surprised a moment. "That was the original purpose of your expedition?"

Sharman nods. "As I'm sure you're aware, he has been a burden on this region for some time, raiding villages and conscripting men into his forces; both Persians and non-Persians have been the victims of his villainy."

"I am aware," the princess says. "Some of my own people have been affected; we've had several trading parties and caravans attacked. It is a good thing to have Kosh stopped." She looks pleased to hear of Kosh's imminent defeat at the hand of the Persian army, and Dastan watches her with confusion. Surely that's not the behavior of someone who's been selling Kosh weapons. But on the other hand, he's seen enough of her to suspect that she's a very good actress. Maybe her story is a lie, to back up her claims that Alamut is innocent.

"So perhaps the wedding could be held in the next week?" Sharaman asks.

The princess considers this. "Weddings in Alamut always take place on the first day of the week, if you don't mind indulging our local traditions," she says. "Which leaves our options as the day after tomorrow, or nine days hence."

"I would prefer not to wait nine days," says the king. "But is the day after tomorrow too soon?"

Princess Tamina hesitates, just for a moment. "We could have the preparations done in time."

"I prefer that, then," says Sharaman, and Dastan's heart starts to pound. He'd been imagining the wedding taking place weeks from now, even months, so he'd have time to resign himself to the idea of being married to Princess Tamina. But two days?

"Prince Dastan?" Princess Tamina turns her clear gaze on him; there's a smile on her face but it doesn't reach her dark eyes. He's more sure than ever that she's not as pleased about the marriage as she's pretending to be, but what is he supposed to do about it? She could refuse, if she wanted; he's not forcing her into anything. She must see all the reasons it's a logical choice, he supposes, and has accepted that their political marriage will do a great deal of good for her city, even if it doesn't do much for her personal happiness. It's very common, in his experience; one of Garsiv's two marriages and all of Tus's were contracted for the same reason. And why should he expect to escape the fate his brothers took on willingly?

"The day after tomorrow is acceptable," he says, and wonders if the princess feels, as he does, as though a jail door has just been closed.

"Another thing," says Princess Tamina. "Would it trouble you very much, Prince Dastan, to move your things into the palace today?"

Dastan blinks. "No, but why?"

"There will be a great deal to do, with planning and fitting you for your wedding clothes. It will be easier if you are here, not out in the camp. And also, according to our traditions, the groom moves into the couple's new home several weeks before the wedding, as his presence makes it more truly a home. After the ceremony the bride and groom return to that home for the wedding night." A touch of pink comes into her cheeks at this, and Dastan is strangely glad to know that he's not the only one who's a little . . . unsettled, thinking about that event. "It is too late for you to spend the usual three weeks in our new chambers, but two days will be better than nothing."

Of course Sharaman, with his love of others' beliefs and traditions, agrees immediately. "We'll have Dastan's things sent over immediately, if the chambers will be ready soon."

The princess inclines her head. "They will be."

Dastan learns as well that he will gain the title "prince of Alamut" because of his marriage, but will have no more political power than one of Tus's wives. He doesn't much mind; "prince of Persia" is the title he cares about most, much more than he cares about gaining power in some tiny city-state in the western reaches of the Persian empire that only survived independently this long because Sharaman has left it alone out of piety. Princess Tamina will gain the title "princess of Persia," although Sharaman adds that, as Dastan is an adopted son, he and Tamina will not be in line for the throne. The princess looks surprised at that, but not displeased; Dastan assumes she has no desire to become queen of the Persian empire.

The discussion winds on to topics that, though important, bore Dastan a little—property and divorce rights, mostly, and it basically boils down to "the groom has more of them than the bride"—so instead he watches the somber-faced man next to the princess write down everything that's been decided on. It takes an embarrassingly long time for it to occur to him how odd it is that despite bringing in these two advisers, the princess has done all of the discussing and negotiating herself. As he was last night when she stood up to the king, he is reluctantly impressed.

Finally it's done, and the man who's been writing gives his pen to Princess Tamina so she can place her mark at the bottom of it. Sharaman signs next, then slides it to Dastan, who picks up the pen, then hesitates. It feels strange, agreeing to this; he doesn't want to do it, and he's fairly sure Princess Tamina doesn't want to do it, not matter how willing she acts now. On the other hand, he's known for many years that he might one day be called on to make a politically expedient marriage, like his brothers. Having grown up among the commoners of Nasaf, and having seen how many of them make love matches and how happy it makes him, he'd always hoped, a little, that he'd be allowed to do the same. But clearly that's not his lot as a member of the royal family, at least not for his first marriage, and if the price he pays for the love and kindness and comfort his family has given him over the years is to marry Princess Tamina, that's not so much to ask, is it?

Then he glances up at his father and his decision is made. All he's wanted to do in the last fifteen years is to please Sharaman and make him proud. And now Sharaman has asked him to make a political union with Princess Tamina. It's as simple as that.

So he marks down his name, and the man who wrote the contract places his seal on it to witness the signing, and Prince Dastan of Persia and Princess Tamina of Alamut are officially betrothed.

o.o.o


	2. Chapter 2

o.o.o

"The day after tomorrow?" Bis repeats in tones of mixed disbelief and amusement. "I'm losing my best friend so soon?"

"Shut up, Bis," Dastan grumbles as he shoves his armor into a saddle bag. Luckily he packs very light when he's out on a military campaign, so packing to move into the palace is the work of a moment. "Anyway, it's not like you're not going to see me; you and the rest of the company are staying here until we return to Nasaf."

"To protect you from the princess?" Bis grins, and Dastan sighs.

"I don't know what's worse, her sniping at me all day yesterday or pretending she doesn't doesn't mind marrying me today. Either way, the contrast is unnerving." He hesitates. "I've changed my mind: the pretending is worse. At least when she was insulting me, I knew where I stood with her."

Bis hesitates, then in a rare moment of seriousness, asks, "Can you blame her, though? We took over her city; we're an invading force. She probably came to her senses after the party and realized that she couldn't keep insulting you lot if she wanted to keep her head."

Dastan hasn't thought of it precisely that way, and he frowns. Trust Bis to see the other side of things. Dastan thinks of himself as straddling the line between the rich and the poor, given his strange upbringing, but the truth is that despite his drinking and brawling with his men, he's much more royalty than commoner these days; he lives among the rich and powerful and is treated as one of them. Bis, though, is the prince's best friend and a frequent visitor to the royal palace, but he's still a mere soldier whose family still lives in a humble house near the market. That gives him a unique perspective on the way the upper and lower classes interact with and misunderstand each other—or in this case, how the invader and the invaded interact with and misunderstand each other.

Dastan finishes with his armor and moves on to his weapons; most will stay out here, on his father's insistence, but a few small pieces will be brought in for protection, just in case. The last item to consider is the dagger still in his belt, the one with the glass handle that he seized in battle, the one that Tus and Princess Tamina both seemed to admire so. He's been wearing it since the battle—he can't put his finger on why, but he likes having it near him—and he decides to bring it into the palace and continue wearing it; it's a small piece, and more decorative than useful, but he rather likes the way it looks, and he doesn't want to risk some soldier wandering off with it. After all, the ruby on the hilt is likely worth a small fortune.

"But while we're on the subject of the princess," Bis goes on, mischief in his voice, "I do have to ask: can you admit you're at least a little bit pleased about marrying her?"

"Bis!"

"Come on, Dastan, she's gorgeous. Even you, the consummate soldier, have to have noticed that."

Of course he's noticed. He can't help noticing it every second he's in her presence. "She's a terror."

"Let me again remind you, you're the man who broke through Alamut's walls. You're the prince of the empire that just invaded her city. I bet she's really nice when she's not, you know, under duress."

Dastan thinks back to his interactions with her. "I doubt it. I bet even at her nicest, she can't help bossing people around."

"And you've spent your whole life listening to your brothers and the king give you orders. She'll fit right in."

Dastan chucks a rolled-up shirt at his friend's head.

"I'm just saying, I think most of the Persian army would happily give up a limb to trade places with you right now."

"You're ridiculous. Give me back my shirt."

Bis, still grinning, lifts the shirt as though to throw it, then hesitates. "I'll give it back on one condition."

"Condition?"

"I know you don't want to marry her, and I know that you don't like her any more than she likes you. But I just want you to keep in mind: you think your life has been turned upside down recently, but imagine how the last few days have been for her."

Giving him a small smile, Bis tosses the shirt back and ducks out of the tent, and Dastan is left alone with his thoughts.

o.o.o

The chambers that have been prepared for him in the palace are as fine and as large as any in the palace in Nasaf; the pile of belongings he's brought with him now look rather silly and tiny in comparison. It's the suite of rooms that are set aside for the ruling monarchs, he learns, with a large sitting room in the center, a bedroom and dressing room for the princess to the left, and a bedroom and dressing room for her consort on the right. The solemn-faced servant who showed him to the suite shows him the various cabinets and trunks where he may place his things, then leaves so he can get settled, explaining that he'll be back in a few minutes to take Dastan to be fitted for his wedding clothes.

It hardly takes a moment to unpack his things, as few as they are. The only thing he can't quite choose a place for is the dagger. He can't wear it to the fitting—it would be in the way as they tried to measure his waist—but he also doesn't want to leave it out in the room; a servant might see it and take it to sell the jewel on the hilt. (Equally possible, but which he likes thinking about less: if the piece is of recognizably Alamutian workmanship, a servant might realize he took it off an Alamutian soldier, and resent him for it.)

So he glances around the sitting room and his private rooms for a bit, trying and failing to find a place to hide it. His searching takes him out to the balcony that opens off the sitting room, which is large and ringed by a beautifully carved railing—probably the finest balcony in the palace, given that this is the room set aside for the ruling monarchs. It looks over a small, private garden, which has no other windows looking onto it; past the wall of the garden, he can see down into the city of Alamut itself, and then the desert stretching out before him. The balcony has obviously been carefully designed to give anyone standing on it absolute privacy from the rest of the palace, and that gives him an idea. Looking up, he sees a large ledge ten feet above his head, part of a bit of decorative carving. With the ease of long practice he scales those ten feet, then sets the dagger securely on the ledge. It's perfect: when he drops back down to the balcony and looks up, he can't see the dagger, and as they are on the top floor of one of the highest buildings in Alamut, no one will be able to look down and see it either: the perfect hiding place. Satisfied, he goes back into his private chambers and waits to be fetched for his fitting with the tailors.

The fitting is lengthy and boring; he gets no say whatsoever in the style of his wedding clothes, that having been decided by his father and bride-to-be, and the tailors say little to him except when to raise his arms. He keeps his focus on the door, wondering if someone is going to come in to direct the fitting—his father or . . . someone else—but no one does. When it is over he has only a few moments to return to his chambers and change his clothing for dinner, which he and his family will be taking with Princess Tamina in the palace.

Unwilling to face his father's admonishment for being late, he strides quickly into his dressing room—and then he stops. Something is different in the room, he's sure of it; all his life, both as a soldier and as a street rat, he has lived and died by his ability to notice details, notice things out of place. And something in this room is out of place: someone has moved a few of his things, ever so slightly. Ducking his head into his bedroom confirms that the same is true there. For a moment his adrenaline starts to rise as it does in the moment before a battle, but then it stops. There have undoubtedly been servants in and out of this room, and they do not yet know the youngest prince of Persia, and how he insists that no one touch his things, not even to clean them, unless he has specifically given them permission. That, he thinks, will have to change if he is to live here for another month.

He doesn't have much time before dinner, but he still takes a moment to return to the balcony and retrieve the dagger, and after he's changed he tucks it in his waistband and allows his flowing formal robes to cover it.

Dinner is an awkward affair, to say the least. Princess Tamina is too good at what she does to be anything but the gracious host, but Dastan's sure he can read her unhappiness in her movements and the way she glances at the Persian royal family. Tus is trying to follow her example, but while he's not nearly as bad at hiding his emotions as his two brothers, he's not as good as the princess, and Dastan can see a certain discomfort in the way the crown prince looks between the betrothed couple—still sorry that she's to wed Dastan, not him? Or just feeling, as Dastan does, that Tus's marriage proposal still hangs in the air around them? And Garsiv clearly doesn't trust the princess at all, based on the way he watches her carefully and never moves his hand far from his sword; most likely he's remembering Princess Tamina pulling a knife on them at their first meeting. Nizam is very quiet, as is often his way at meals like this; he seems to be nursing an injury on his hands, most likely something leftover from the battle. And Dastan? He doesn't know what he feels, but he's definitely uneasy.

Only Sharaman seems to be in unaffected good spirits; either he doesn't notice or, more likely, is choosing to ignore the tension in the room. He talks at length with Princess Tamina about the history of Alamut and of Persia, and compliments her city, and tells her about the wonders of Nasaf, where she'll be living in only a month's time.

"I look forward to seeing it," she says politely. "I have heard a great deal of Nasaf."

"Of course I'll be returning there before you," the king says, "and I will have some of our finest chambers prepared for you before your arrival. It is a beautiful palace, if I do say so myself. And I think you'll find Garsiv and Tus's wives to be excellent company for you, when the men are off at war."

The princess's smile seems to freeze for a moment before she regains her composure and agrees smoothly, "I have no doubt they will be." But it's too late; Dastan saw it. She has no interest in sitting at the palace with Garsiv and Tus's wives (and with Dastan's other wives, someday in the future, which is a thought he simply can't deal with at the moment so he puts it from his mind) while he's off fighting; mostly likely, having never been married and her father long dead, she has been used to a degree of independence that she fears she'll lose as a princess of Persia. Dastan wishes he knew how to reassure her that Persian women have a great deal of autonomy, and most of her time will be entirely her own, especially since he finds her a bit terrifying and is not likely to spend too much time in her company, but that's not the sort of thing you say in front of the royal family at a formal dinner.

"What will become of your city, Princess, when you are away in Nasaf?" That's Nizam speaking, his tone congenial and conversational.

"It will continue as it has done," she says smoothly. "There is a council that manages day-to-day affairs, and for more important decisions, I can write from Nasaf."

That bothers Dastan for some reason; it's not like he intends to keep her prisoner in Nasaf, able to contact her city only via letters, from a great distance. So he makes nearly his first comment of the evening and adds, "And we will visit often."

Princess Tamina turns that smile on him that she's been wearing all evening, the one he's coming to recognize as her diplomatic smile. "You are kind to say so, my prince. I would be very happy to see Alamut often." He wonders what she looks like when she smiles and means it.

"And, of course," Sharaman chimes in, "Alamut will now be under the protection of Persia. Any threats that arise will be dealt with as though they threatened Nasaf itself."

"My city will indeed be in good hands," says the princess, inclining her head gracefully, and Dastan can't handle it any longer.

So when the meal is done and they are leaving, he pulls his betrothed to the side for a moment. His family members smile indulgently and file out of the room quickly to give them privacy, and when the couple is alone, Dastan says, "How do you actually feel about this wedding?" It's the first time they've ever spoken with no one else to hear them.

She wasn't expecting that, clearly. "I'm sorry?"

"You're a good liar," he says, "but I can tell you're only pretending when you act like you're happy about all this."

An odd expression crosses her face, a crack in her careful armor. "Why do you ask?" she says in rather a different tone than he's ever heard her use.

Why does he ask? That's a good question. He casts his mind about, and the only explanation he can think of that makes sense is the following: "I don't like being lied to."

Her face goes back to its habitual diplomatic expression so quickly that he almost doubts whether he ever actually saw that facade drop. "I wouldn't dare, my prince. What kind of start would that be to a marriage?" And with a beatific smile, she inclines her head, then strides out of the room, leaving Dastan blinking in surprise after her.

o.o.o

He doesn't see her at all the next day; he learns from the Alamutians in the palace that she is, in accordance with the customs of the high priestess, spending the day in prayer and contemplation.

His day is much more entertaining. In the morning he wakes early and decides to take a walk through the city, dressed in his most common clothes. He doesn't blend in—his clothes and his light eyes and skin clearly mark him as Persian—but he doesn't look like a prince and he doesn't look like the man who is to marry the Alamutians' princess, and that's what he wants. The townsfolk he passes are cautious around him, but mostly they carry on with their lives, and he sees that they appear to be a happy, prosperous people. The city is clean, the roads are in good repair, and there are fewer street urchins than in Nasaf. It speaks to good leadership, and he is once again reluctantly impressed with Princess Tamina and her advisers and councils.

After returning to the palace—he manages to sneak in without being seen, which is good, as the servants here aren't accustomed to the street rat prince of Persia yet, and might be baffled as to why the princess's future husband is wandering about dressed like a commoner—he has a second fitting, where the tailors bring him nearly completed pieces to try on; they must have worked through the night to complete them.

He has lunch with his company of soldiers in the camp outside the city walls, which is meant to be a relaxing way to spend time with his men but ends up being anything but as they bombard him with a constant stream of questions and comments and good-natured ribbing about his upcoming marriage, and each word only serves to deepen the unease he's been trying to bury since the moment his father announced the betrothal.

"So, you looking forward to it?"

"Of course he's not! That means he has less time to spend with us! I bet he's furious about it."

"Have you even seen the princess, you numbskull? Nobody would be furious about marrying her."

"I bet she's a harpy, though. Remember how she pulled a knife on the princes when they showed up?"

"One of Tus's guards overheard her yelling at Dastan once—called him 'brutal' and 'dishonorable,' didn't she, Dastan?"

"Looking like that, she can yell at me all she likes."

"So, you looking forward to the wedding night?"

Challenging Bis to spar after lunch seems like a good way to get away from all the talking, but now he has too much time to think, which he's been avoiding doing for a while now. There's no point wallowing in his thoughts, is there, because he's already agreed to the marriage? But now that his soldiers' questions have brought all his feelings to the surface, he can't get away from them. He really had been hoping to dodge marriage for a few years yet; he's seen how Garsiv and Tus's wives had taken up so much of their time when the princes are at home. Not to mention that, loving Persia as much as he does, he has a hard time imagining being married to someone who seems to think so little of the greatest empire on earth. And he fears that after the wedding has occurred, Princess Tamina will eventually grow tired of feigning politeness, and will revert to the angry firebrand he'd met on his first day in Alamut.

But on the other hand, his father has asked it of him. He knows that political marriages happen every day, and he's always suspected he'd have to make one, and why should he get out of that when his brothers have both fulfilled their duties without complaint? And while he doesn't want to be married just at this moment, he has to admit he has always wanted to be married. Blame it on his orphan childhood, but he's always found something very alluring about the idea of having a family of his own—about being there for a wife and children in a way that his own parents, whoever they were, were not for him. He very much favors the idea of children of his own, who he can teach to ride and fight, who'll come running to greet him when he's been away. He just can't imagine Princess Tamina being the mother of those children.

_But imagine if she came to love you,_  says a voice in his head, _imagine her smiling genuinely, imagine her gazing up lovingly at you with those beautiful eyes, imagine her kissing you—_  and that is the moment that Bis's foot connects hard with his stomach and he staggers backwards, the breath knocked out of him.

"Are you even paying attention, Dastan? That move never works on you."

"I'm a bit distracted," Dastan admits, reaching for the towel.

Bis examines him for a moment, then suggests, "Why don't you speak to your brothers? They have a lot more experience with marrying than I do."

It's a good idea, and Dastan sets out to do just that. Unfortunately, Garsiv is in the process of saddling his horse, as he's leading some of his cavalry on a patrol, and he has time only for a very unhelpful piece of advice: "Keep an eye on your princess. That one's tricky."

Tus isn't much better, at first; he's back inside the city, leading the search for the weapons forges, and is getting very discouraged by their lack of success so far. The tight smile he flashes at his brother can't disguise his unhappiness as he discusses the search with a handful of his captains.

"It's only been a few days," Dastan comforts him when they're alone again. "You've got time yet."

"Yes, but I was sure we'd have found at least a hint by now," Tus insists. "What if we're wrong, Dastan? What if there's nothing?"

"We all saw those weapons," Dastan points out.

"They could be forgeries."

"Yes, but why? From whom?" This conversation sits rather oddly with Dastan; he wants to keep Tus's spirits up, but he's perfectly aware that if forges are found, then he will find himself married to someone who sold weapons to Persia's enemies. ( _And what will happen to Alamut, to the people he saw this morning, to Tamina herself, if this is proven? They'll all have to be considered potential traitors, potential threats. Martial law may be required in the city, at least at first, and how can he ever trust his own wife after that revelation?)_

Still, he'd do anything to keep Tus from feeling so unhappy; he loves his brother, and as crown prince, the poor man has always felt the weight of expectations—from their father and the entire world—so keenly. The possibility of being proven to have invaded a holy city without cause, with all the condemnation that would earn him from Sharaman and from Persia's allies, must surely haunt him day and night. So Dastan feels that distracting Tus from his search for a moment is really an act of service.

"I actually came here to ask your advice," he says. "Seeing as you've got the most marriages out of all of us."

This successfully distracts Tus, whose expression lightens as he laughs. "Nervous about tomorrow, little brother?"

Dastan grins sheepishly. "Were you ever nervous?"

Tus glances around before leaning in conspiratorially. "Don't tell Garsiv this," he says, "but the night before my first wedding, I was a wreck. Barely slept, nearly paced a hole right through my floor." He grins. "Of course, I was younger than you are now, but still."

"Really?"

"I was terrified of Mandana."

"Now you're just teasing me."

"No, I was! She was stunning, she was brilliant, she was older than me, and she looked at me like I was a spider she'd crushed under her shoe. I was certain the marriage was going to be a disaster."

"Mandana? Really?" Dastan has never know his sister-in-law to be anything but kind; no one who saw her and Tus together would ever mistake them for being in love, but they get along well and treat each other with respect. But then, Dastan supposes, they married only a year after the youngest prince of Persia was adopted. He'd been too young to care about things like his future sister's feelings toward her betrothed, and too busy trying to prove himself to Sharaman and annoy Garsiv to watch the new couple.

Tus nods. "But we both had a duty to perform. And it was nerve-wracking at first, but in time, in the course of performing that duty, we came to . . . an understanding. We came to admire each other and enjoy each other's company. And you and Tamina will do the same, I'm sure of it. Just remember, you both have a duty to perform."

"A duty to perform," Dastan agrees, with only a little hesitation. "I can do that."

o.o.o

He's so cheered and encouraged by his conversation with Tus that he hardly minds spending the next three hours being bathed and scrubbed and perfumed to within an inch of his life. He smells like a garden by the time they're done, and his hair feels strange, being so clean and soft when he rubs it between his fingers. He hasn't been this clean since . . . well, since Garsiv's last wedding. If he's got to perform his duty and marry Tamina tomorrow, at least she'll have no reason to complain about the way he smells.

He maintains this serenity until he returns to his chambers after his bath and sees that once again, someone has been moving his things in both the dressing room and the bedroom. It's subtle, but he's so certain someone's been rummaging around in there that with a sudden burst of suspicion, he runs out to the balcony to check on the most valuable thing he has with him—but no, it's still up there in its hiding place, and he shakes his head at himself as he places the dagger under his pillow. No one knows that he has the bejewelled dagger, and why would anyone steal it anyway? Surely this was, once again, servants of the palace, preparing the suite for the princess to move in tomorrow—

Princess Tamina. Sharing these chambers with him. Starting tomorrow.

And suddenly he is fighting not to panic again.

o.o.o


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:
> 
> This is the wedding chapter, so I thought this is a good place to tell you that there will be no lemons in this story, either here or in other chapters. So if you were worried, you can stop worrying, and if you were looking forward to it, sorry. :)
> 
> Also, it was difficult to know how to represent the wedding ceremony, given that no one (including the film makers) seems to have a clear idea of when this movie is set. So I pulled in certain elements of Persian and Zoroastrian wedding ceremonies, as well as my made-up Alamutian elements, but basically it's all just nonsense. So, sorry, is I guess what I'm trying say here? ;)

o.o.o

That night Dastan dreams, as he occasionally does, of the day Sharaman found him, and he awakes calm and resigned to his fate: marrying is what his father wants of him, so that is what he'll do. He's calm as he eats breakfast, calm as the servants dress him in his wedding clothes—the finest clothing he has ever owned, and he is both awed and intimated by the beautifully embroidered jacket—and calm as they lead him down to the great hall on the ground floor of the palace. He's the last to arrive, besides the bride, and the room is already full with his family, the officers from the army, and a large number of strangers in the traditional white and gold of the Alamutian court.

The plan, decided on by Sharaman and Princess Tamina, was to mix Persian and Alamutian traditions, and as Dastan walks into the room, he immediately sees a great deal that he recognizes from previous weddings and a number of things he does not. At the head of the room is the traditional elaborately embroidered cloth, spread on the ground, with the usual objects arranged atop it: the mirror and the candlesticks, a platter of flatbread, bowls of fruit and sugar and rosewater. But there are things there that he doesn't recognize: a crystal goblet of clear water, a golden box decorated with a pattern of stars and wheels, and, oddest of all, a stone bowl filled with what appears to be simply sands from the deserts around them. The two children on either side of the cloth, carrying branches of a plant he doesn't recognize, are new to him as well.

At the head of the cloth is a bench; a canopy made of green fabric is being held over it by four women whose jewelry and painted hands mark them as high-ranking members of Princess Tamina's court. This he does recognize, and he takes a final deep breath, enters the room, and takes his seat on the bench. He can see himself reflected in the highly polished bronze mirror before him: the clean hair pulled up away from his face, the gold-embroidered collar of his robe that feels like it's strangling him. The man in the mirror doesn't look like him.

It's only a few seconds before the bride enters; she comes from behind him so he can't see her, but he can hear the change in the quiet murmuring of the crowd. She sits to his left, and in the mirror before them he can see her reflection well enough to see that her face is veiled.

Sharaman and an old Alamutian man—Dastan thinks he heard the man referred as Alamut's regent, which means he's the man Tus took the prayer robe from—officiate. Each reads a few scriptures from their respective religions—the basic gist of each is the same, about the sanctity of marriage—and then Sharaman says, "My son, you have been a blessing to me since you arrived in my home. I know that the both of you, and your children to come, will continue to be a blessing, not only to me but to both Persia and Alamut."

The old man is rather less affectionate. He starts with a generic appeal to the gods, then prays for a blessing on the high priestess, a blessing of safety and holy favor and strength to perform her duty; for the duration of the blessing, the princess and the Alamutians in the room bow their heads and hold their hands before them, palms up, in a sort of supplicating gesture. The prayer doesn't say much about the groom, and Dastan once again gets the sense that the Alamutians assume he's going to lock her away in a dungeon somewhere when they get back to Nasaf.

Then Sharaman asks Dastan and Princess Tamina if they consent to marry each other. She is quiet at first, and for one wild moment Dastan thinks she's going to back out of it, or to revert to the angry, insulting version of herself that was his first introduction to her. But then she speaks in a clear, steady voice. "Yes."

And somehow her steadiness helps Dastan steel his nerves. "Yes." And the room bursts into cheering and yelling, rather more enthusiastically from the Persians than from the Alamutians.

As he has been instructed, Dastan turns to Princess Tamina and takes her hands in his. He can't see her face well behind the veil, so instead he focuses on the pattern of stars and flowers and wheels painted all over her arms as he brings her hands to his lips and kisses them carefully. The cheering intensifies as Dastan lifts the veil from her face, and for a moment he genuinely can't think straight. The outfit is nothing he hasn't seen her in before, although it's a bit more elaborate than he's used to—the white dress with gold adornments, the carefully applied kohl around her eyes, the crystals woven in her hair like stars in the night sky—but somehow what they've just done makes her beauty hit him harder than ever: she is his and he is hers for the rest of their lives, and for a brief moment, he is finally as happy about the marriage as everyone thinks he should be. But then the look in her eyes registers with him, and the feeling vanishes. She's giving him a smile, as befits a new bride, but it doesn't reach her eyes, leaving the expression to appear more polite than genuine. No matter what she pretends, she's not pleased with this marriage.

Tus appears then, with a loaf of bread that he sets on a board between them and carefully cuts in two with his sword, and the newlyweds each take a half and eat a little of it; then they both drink from the wine he pours for them. And then he makes them stand from the bench and announces, "Dastan and Tamina!" and the cheering, which had died down, starts up again as those in attendance start making their way to the front of the room to congratulate the couple. Under the cover of the noise, the crown prince looks at them both with sincerity in his eyes and says, "May this be the beginning of peace between us."

Sharaman approaches and says nearly the same thing, and then Garsiv gives them both a tight smile—still distrustful of his new sister-in-law, clearly—and then Bis is slapping Dastan on the back and the old man who officiated is speaking to Princess Tamina, and with all the congratulations that follow, Dastan doesn't see his new wife again until the Persian royal family, including its newest member, is making its way to the banquet.

The feasting and celebrating is planned to go on for three days, which makes Dastan uncomfortable; not for the first time, the street rat in him wonders how royals can countenance gorging themselves on this much food when the commoners around them die of hunger on a daily basis. Back home in Nasaf they all know how he feels about this, and his meals are always very moderate and the kitchen staff has orders to make any leftovers from his meals available to the poor, so he usually only sees feasts like this on very special occasions. For a moment he thinks this banquet is the result of the Alamutians not knowing him, but then he remembers, it's his wedding. There would have been three days of feasting no matter what. At least, he supposes, he'll be able to spend the afternoon with his family, drinking and enjoying songs and stories.

But even that is not to be. For, as the royal party draws close to the banqueting hall, one of their captains approaches, with a bedraggled-looking Persian soldier trailing behind him.

"A thousand pardons for the interruption, your highnesses," he says, "but we have urgent news." He nods to the soldier behind him, who steps forward.

"Kosh has attacked our outpost at Lambsar," the soldier says without preamble, sounding out of breath.. "Those soldiers who weren't killed have been forced out of the fort; they've been regrouping in the wilderness to prepare for a counterattack. But when I remembered that the army was nearby at Alamut . . ."

Instantly gone are the five happy Persian royals, looking forward to a day of feasting, and in their places stand five hardened soldiers. The wedding, and even Princess Tamina, standing near them with her attendants, are momentarily set aside.

"How long a ride is it to the outpost?" Nizam demands.

"Two days," Garsiv answers before the soldier can.

"We shall have to respond," responds Sharaman. "But what terrible timing!"

Tus's face has settled into the expression he gets when thinking hard. "We'll need to divide the troops, some to stay here and protect Alamut, and you, Father, and some to travel with us to Lambsar."

"We'll leave the foot soldiers," says Garsiv decisively, "and take the mounted cavalry. Their numbers aren't as many as I'd like, but we need their speed."

"What about the king's guard?" Dastan suggests. "There aren't many of them, but they are mounted, and they're some of the finest soldiers in the empire. If that meets with your approval, Father."

"Yes, of course, take them."

Garsiv turns to the captain and the soldier who brought them the news. "Go tell my cavalry and the king's guard to prepare to ride for Lambsar. I will personally inform those officers currently at the wedding banquet." The two men bow in response and make their exit.

Tus is not convinced. "Who will guard you, Father?"

"My company," says Dastan as though it should have been obvious, and despite the tension of the situation, Garsiv snickers a little.

"That ragtag group?"

Dastan grins at him. "Remember who breached the walls of Alamut," he says, and remembers a second too late that Princess Tamina is standing next to him and he probably shouldn't brag about invading her city.

"Dastan's company will be fine," says Sharaman. "And you must accompany Garsiv, Tus."

Tus looks surprised. "But the search for forges—"

"Can continue without you."

"But—"

"I will put your uncle Nizam in charge of it," Sharaman says firmly. Nizam nods in agreement, and the matter is decided. He turns to Dastan. "And you, of course, will be staying here."

Dastan opens his mouth to object, gets one look at his father's face, and subsides. "Of course, Father." After a moment's reflection he decides he's lucky, really, that Sharaman spoke before he could, so that Princess Tamina will never know that his first instinct was to abandon her and go off to war on their wedding day. He turns to his brothers and, to fight down the sudden knot of worry in his stomach, teases, "Be careful, though; I hate to think what kind of trouble you could get into without me there to watch your back."

"Really?" says Garsiv drily. "I was just thinking about how much more effective we'll be when we don't have to constantly pull you out of scrapes."

"We'll leave right away," says Tus. He embraces his father, then his youngest brother, then gives Princess Tamina a half-bow. "Our apologies for leaving so suddenly in the middle of your wedding celebrations," he says formally. "Please believe we mean it as no slight to you."

The princess inclines her head in return. "As the man you go to fight is an enemy of Alamut as well, I certainly cannot hold your leaving against you." Her tone is as formal as her brother-in-law's. "We will have a family celebration, to commemorate the wedding and your defeat of Kosh's forces, when you return."

Garsiv gives the princess only a firm nod, but his eyes soften when Dastan clasps him by the wrist. "Be careful," the youngest prince says. "I don't want to have to dress up for a funeral so soon after dressing up for my wedding." He glances at Tus. "Both of you."

Tus and Garsiv nod. "Save some of the wedding wine for us," Garsiv requests—as affectionate a goodbye as Dastan can expect from his brother—and then the princes take leave of their father and their uncle and stride away, off to inform some of the officers currently expecting to celebrate a wedding that instead they must prepare for battle.

Sharaman watches them go with eyes that suddenly look weary and old. "Princess Tamina," he says softly, "I may need to ask you later for somewhere quiet in the palace where I can pray."

Princess Tamina's expression softens, and for the first time that Dastan's aware of, she looks at the Persian king with genuine warmth. "We have many such places available," she says.

It's a quiet group that makes the rest of the journey to the banqueting hall. Sharaman and Nizam get a few steps ahead of them, and Princess Tamina, walking by Dastan's side, asks quietly, "You and your father both seem quite worried. Is this a particularly dangerous battle they go to fight?"

"Any fight has the potential to be deadly," says Dastan, equally quiet. He hesitates. "My father worries terribly every time we go to fight."

"And you?"

"It's been a long time since I watched my brothers march off to war without me," he admits. "I'd forgotten how helpless it makes me feel—they'll be in danger and there's nothing I can do to help."

When he glances at her, he sees an odd expression cross her face for a moment. "Your family seems to be very close-knit."

He says nothing.

"I will pray for your brothers' victory," she says, and before he can answer, they arrive at the banquet. The prince and king take a moment to shake off their somber moods, and then the whole group enters the banqueting hall to a chorus of cheers. Dastan takes a moment to find Bis, whose friendship with Dastan got him invited despite his lack of noble birth, so he can quickly tell him what has happened and send him off to prepare Dastan's company to take up positions in the palace as the king's personal guard ("Tell them to bathe first, if they can possibly stand it"). Then the bride and groom take their positions at the head table, surrounded by Sharaman, Nizam, the old Alamutian regent, and an Alamutian woman Dastan's seen often around the palace, and the banquet begins.

The food is superb—a mix of familiar Persian dishes and unfamiliar dishes that must be Alamutian in origin—and the wine flows constantly, although Dastan doesn't drink as much as he might have done at another banquet; Tus and Garsiv's leaving has put a damper on his desire to celebrate, and also he wants to keep a somewhat clear head, given that it's his wedding day, with . . . everything that entails. Princess Tamina, sitting next to him, seems also to scarcely touch her wine. Whether that's for the same reason as him, or whether she simply isn't much of a drinker, Dastan doesn't get to find out, because they have almost no time to talk.

First it's speeches, from Sharaman and a few high-ranking Persian officers who didn't go to Lambsar, and then from an interminable number of serious-faced Alamutians in white robes. The Alamutians' speeches are largely praising their princess and the thousand wonderful things she's done for the city—everything from advocating for her people to the gods to maintaining Alamut's famed wells—and Dastan has to admit, if she's done half the things they claim, she's rather an impressive person. Most likely, though, these were actually done by her advisers and councils and she just gets credit for it, because who would possibly have time to single-handedly oversee all these things?

After what feels like a lifetime of these speeches, and after everyone has eaten their fill, there are entertainments planned: singers and musicians and dancers and storytellers and acrobats. Most are Alamutian, given that the Persian army doesn't bring dance troops with them when they go to battle. But they did happen to have with them a storyteller and a singer, both old men who've served the Persian army for many years as entertainment for the men and the princes, who grace the assembled crowd with many familiar old songs and with tales of Dastan's military prowess. This pleases and embarrasses him; hopefully his new wife doesn't think he put them up to bragging about him. But when he glances over to see how she's reacting to the stories, her face is blank.

(He assumes that someday the story of how he breached the walls of Alamut for the first time in anyone's memory and claimed the hand of their beautiful princess will someday be added to this collection of stories, but he's glad that the old man had the sense not to bring it up at this banquet.)

By the time all of this is finished, it's time for the evening meal. This time there are no speeches, no entertainments, but even now the newly married couple has no time to speak to each other alone; this is a less formal meal than the mid-day one, so the head table is visited by a constant stream of wedding guests who want to speak with the bride and groom. Nearly every Persian captain in the room, all of whom have served with Dastan for many years, want to talk to him, giving him congratulations, commenting on the beauty of his bride, and asking what his plans are now that he is married into a city two days' ride from Nasaf. Bis, returned from his task of preparing their soldiers, comes up to complain about losing his best friend. Dastan's not sure what sorts of things people are saying to Tamina, but he does notice that only Alamutians are speaking with her, just as only Persians are speaking with him, and he assumes that none of them are telling her how lucky she is to marry a Persian prince.

The only moment they have to speak to each other comes when everyone is momentarily distracted by the appearance of the next wave of food, and Sharaman and the old Alamutian regent who've been their constant companions all day find themselves distracted in a discussion with each other about Kosh, and for a few brief moments Dastan and Princess Tamina are alone. When Dastan realizes he has a moment to speak with her, he glances over at her. She's watching a pair of particularly elaborately ornamented Alamutians walk away, and she clearly doesn't know she's being observed because for a brief moment her mask slips and he sees into her very soul: on her face, clear as day, is raw, naked pain and sorrow, and it makes something in his chest twinge. He would never want to cause such sorrow to anyone who wasn't an enemy of Persia, and especially not to his own wife. Almost immediately she carefully rearranges her expression into the bland politeness it's worn all day, but it's too late for dissembling; Dastan saw it. She must be sorry, he decides, to think that in a month, she'll be moving to Nasaf and won't see the people she loves. And he decides to set her mind at ease.

"Nasaf is my home," he says, leaning toward her, and she looks at him in surprise; it's the first thing they've said to each other since entering the room some seven or eight hours ago. "But I know this is yours. And we can come back to visit as often as you like."

Her expression changes to something he can't quite read.

"Well, maybe not as often as you like," he amends. "My obligations to Persia are the most important thing. But often, I promise you."

Her face settles back into its customary flat, diplomatic expression. "The prince is too kind."

Someone else appears to demand her attention then, and he returns to his meal, unsure if that conversation was a success or not.

o.o.o

The day feels like it has dragged on forever, but still, when two maids appear to lead Princess Tamina away, suddenly Dastan feels like everything is happening too quickly. The suggestive looks some of the Persian officers are giving him don't help; nor does Bis's cheeky grin from across the room.

It's not that he's not willing, or interested in sharing her bed—just look at her, of _course_ he's interested. But on the other hand, he still doesn't quite trust her; no matter how compliant she acts, he can't help but remember the princess he met on his first day here, and he can't help but feel that such a drastic change in personality has to mean something more significant than simply her deciding the marriage is useful to her politically. There is a tiny part of him that keeps insisting she's up to something. Not to mention, Alamut's innocence still hasn't been proven; there is a still a chance that they have secretly been selling weapons to Kosh, which would mean that Tamina can't be trusted at all. (Truth be told, though, he's not at all convinced that the treachery will ever be proven. Now that he's been in Alamut a few days and seen what the people here are like, the idea of their forging weapons to sell to a warlord seems rather farfetched.)

And also . . . also, if he's entirely honest with himself, the princess's lack of enthusiasm for the match is a difficulty for him. He knows this is how political matches go; he knows that often one or both parties is involved against their own wishes, and he knows that nearly any man in the Persian army would laugh him out of the room if they knew of his qualms. But still . . . The other soldiers and officers tease him often about his refusal to join them at the brothels, but his upbringing has ruined those for him. Growing up homeless in the slums meant that the women who worked in those brothels, and those who worked the streets instead, were his neighbors, his constant companions, even his friends. And he saw, with many of those women, how they hated what they did, how they only sought that employment when they had run out of other options. He saw the unhappiness on their faces, the flatness of their eyes when they talked about it. And he's never been able to understand how anyone could take enjoyment out of sleeping with someone who feels about you the way those women felt about their customers. A political marriage is not the same thing, certainly. But all the same, he knows that up in their chambers, Princess Tamina is waiting to give herself to a man she'd rather have nothing to do with, all for the sake of stability and protection. And the thought makes his stomach clench.

But it's too late to complain, because suddenly it's time for him to leave, and he focuses only on his father's warm smile and his uncle's steady gaze and tries to ignore the cheers and jeers of the Persian officers. The servants who've been sent to fetch him lead him back to his chamber doors and help him unbutton his elaborate jacket. Then they open the doors for him, bow, and exit, leaving him alone with his new wife.

Princess Tamina is standing in the main chamber, the one between the two bedrooms. The jewels and gold paint have been washed from her skin, although the base design that was dyed on there remains. The elaborate dress has been changed for a simple white shift, the crystals removed from her hair, the kohl cleaned from her face. It makes her look less like a princess and more like a normal woman, and a rather young woman at that, which doesn't help matters at all. Dastan swallows hard as the doors shut behind him.

Before he can say anything—not that he has any idea what to say anyway—she steps forward. "Can I take your jacket?" she asks. "You must be tired of wearing it; brocade can be so heavy, can't it?"

She's not wrong, so Dastan shrugs out of his jacket and hands it to her, leaving him standing in his trousers and a long, loose white shirt. She accepts it from him, then glances down at his hip. "What happened to that dagger you've been wearing the last few days? I couldn't help noticing it; it's rather beautiful."

"I didn't wear it," he shrugs, pleased that the conversation is remaining so mundane for the moment. "I assumed it would clash with your tailors' vision for my wedding outfit."

"It's Alamutian, isn't it? I recognized the design."

He nods, a little embarrassed that he's been flaunting something he took from an Alamutian soldier in battle.

"Could I see it? It looks like an antique; Alamutian antiques are an interest of mine. I have a beautiful collection; I'll have to show it to you some time."

He doesn't see anything wrong with this request, so while she takes the jacket to his dressing room, he pops out to the balcony and fetches the dagger from its hiding place. Princess Tamina's eyes flash as she takes the dagger from him with reverent hands; as he watches her eagerly examine it, he notices the gold chain around her neck, disappearing under the collar of her shift, and it occurs to him that she's been wearing it every time he's seen her. He wonders what the significance is.

"Beautiful," she declares, and sets the dagger down on a side table. "Now, Prince Dastan—"

"Please," he says, "just Dastan."

She hesitates, then nods. "And you, of course, may call me Tamina. Now, I noticed you didn't drink much at the banquet, and neither did I, but I think that given the . . . current circumstances, a drink might be a good idea. Will you join me?"

Again, she's not wrong, so he follows her to another side table, where two glasses of wine have been set. He accepts the glass she hands him and lifts it. "To peace between our people."

"Yes," she agrees, "let us hope most fervently that there will be peace."

They both lift their glasses to their lips. Dastan takes a tiny sip of his, and then he hesitates. The thought that Princess Tamina—no, just Tamina—feels the need to drink in order to get through tonight suddenly eats at him, and he sets the glass down.

Tamina looks surprised, and for the briefest moment something dark passes over her face. "Not to your liking? You should give it another try; this comes from our most famous vineyard."

"No, it's not that. It's—" And suddenly he stops. The world has started to swim before his eyes, and he blinks hard a few times but the feeling continues. "How strong is this stuff?" he asks.

She looks perfectly baffled. "What do you mean?"

"I feel dizzy—" He breaks off and grabs the edge of the table for balance. This isn't the wine, especially not with the tiny amount he drank. This feels like . . . he lifts his head and stares at Tamina in surprise. This feels like the time Garsiv drugged his wine as a prank. But that's absurd; why would Princess Tamina (no, just Tamina) drug him? "Did you—"

The world tilts sharply, and instinct kicks in. Whether or not it makes sense for his new wife to drug him, somehow he has been compromised, and without thinking he darts across the room to grab the only means he has to defend himself: the Alamutian dagger.

"Dastan, what in the world are you doing? You don't look well; you should lie down." She sounds perfectly reasonable, and Dastan wavers on a knife's edge a moment, wondering whether he should trust her. Is she right? Is he reacting badly to the wine and it's making him suddenly skittish?

But before he can make up his mind, there is a blood-curdling scream from downstairs, so loud that they hear it clearly even two floors up. Dastan looks toward the door, jerks his head back to stare at Tamina—who looks just as baffled as he does—then takes off toward the door, determined to investigate the source of the scream, even though the floor tilts worryingly with every step and he's so lightheaded he wonders if he's going to pass out. He hears footsteps behind him and realizes that Tamina is following.

They reach the stairs, where he tucks the dagger into his waistband so his hands are free as he tries to navigate the staircase with his head swimming. They have just made it down to the ground floor when two Persian officers, men Dastan has known for years, appear, running toward the stairs—running, he supposes, to find him. "What's happened?" he demands, slowing to a stop.

They don't answer. And their stormy expressions don't soften on seeing him. In fact, one of them grabs Dastan's arms in a vicelike grip while the other slaps manacles around his wrists, then points a sword right at his throat. "Prince Dastan," says the one with the sword, "we are arresting you for attempting to murder the king."

o.o.o


	4. Chapter 4

o.o.o

In the moment of shocked silence following the announcement, the officer gripping Dastan's arm starts marching him down the hall. "Wait," Dastan demands, spurred into speech by the movement, "what do you mean? What happened to my father?"

"Your father is alive," the man with the sword spits out. "Your plan failed, traitor."

Dastan sags with relief; between that and whatever's wrong with him right now, he's actually glad these men have hold of his arms, because he might have collapsed otherwise. Sharaman is alive; the rest of this nonsense about a murder plot can be sorted out, as long as nothing has happened to his father.

It's not until they reach the banqueting hall that Dastan realizes Tamina is still with them; as they move inside and toward the crowd of people gathered near the head table, Dastan sees her say something quietly to an Alamutian woman, who promptly removes her elaborate outer robe so Tamina can put it on and not appear before her people in only a shift. The crowd clears a path as the officers, shouting, shove Dastan up to the head of the room. And there he recoils. His father is standing there, staring at him in horror and grief and shock and pain, demanding, "How could you, Dastan?" Nizam stands at his shoulder, looking equally alarmed. A few feet away stands the Alamutian woman who was Tamina's escort today, with a pained expression on her face and angry-looking boils and blisters on her upturned palms; piled on the floor at her feet is the prayer robe that Dastan gave to his father three days earlier. And collapsed on the ground is the old regent who was Tamina's escort for the wedding; he's gasping for breath, his skin covered in the same horrible boils and sores. Two people who must be healers are kneeling over him.  


"Selon!" Tamina gasps, and flies to the old man's side.  


"What happened?" Dastan demands, looking wildly around this strange scene. The watching crowd gives him no clues; the Alamutians all look shocked and grieved for the man on the floor, and the Persian officers all look murderously angry.  


"The robe!" says Sharaman, sounding shaken. "The robe that you gave me."

As woozy as Dastan is, he can't piece together what's happened here. "What are you talking about? What do you mean?"  


"Like you don't know!" says the officer still holding a sword to Dastan's throat.  


Dastan's beginning to think he won't get a straight answer until Bis materializes from the crowd. "Maybe he doesn't!" he insists, then turns troubled eyes on his best friend. "The robe you gave your father, remember? The king wanted to return it to the regent it had been taken from, as a gesture of goodwill. But when the regent put it on . . ." He gestures at the old man, still struggling to breathe.

"Poisoned!" yells someone from the crowd. "You meant that robe for your father, and it was poisoned!"

"You must have wanted him dead!" says the officer holding Dastan's arm.

"No, of course not!" Dastan insists.

"You are the one who gave the robe to your father," Nizam points out, anger and accusation in his tone.  


Sharaman only looks at his son with that same beaten expression he's worn all this while. "Why, Dastan?" he asks, and his tone of heartbreak and betrayal is worse than a knife to the stomach.  


There's something Dastan should say, he thinks, something he ought to remember, but his head is still swimming and the lights have started to get painfully bright. Maybe under other circumstances he could defend himself, but right now he feels like he's stuck in a fog. He struggles to shake himself free of whatever this strange feeling is, and the first thing he manages to focus his eyes on is his uncle's hands; they're clasped in front of him, and they look strangely red and burned as well. Did he too try to pull the robe off the old man, perhaps? 

Nizam turns to Sharaman. "He must be punished for his crimes, and quickly. This was obviously an attempt to overthrow the throne, and we should not give him a stage for his sedition." Dastan blinks in surprise at such a bloodthirsty statement coming from his uncle's mouth —but then, Nizam adores his brother. Of course he'd be angry.

From somewhere in the crowd comes a yell: "Kill the murderer!"

And another: "String him up!"

Sharaman holds up a staying hand. "He will stand trial for his crimes." He hesitates. "And if he is guilty, we will learn what could prompt him to do such a horrible thing. Princess Tamina, I hope you have some kind of prison here."  


Tamina finally looks up at that, and gets to her feet. "Your highness," she says to the king, but before she can get any farther, a number of things happen in rapid succession.  


"Take care, he has a weapon!" someone—maybe Nizam?—calls out.

The officer holding the sword to Dastan's throat looks down and sees the dagger in his waistband. "I'll take that," he says, and sheathes his sword in preparation to seize the dagger.  


Someone from the crowd yells, "The prince is a traitor! He should die for his crimes!" Perhaps in response, the seething anger of the Persians seems to suddenly boil over, and the crowd rushes forward, running into the man holding Dastan's arm. He trips and loses his grip on Dastan as he stumbles to the ground.

In the confusion, Tamina steps forward and drives her elbow into the stomach of the officer reaching for the dagger. "Come on!" she says, and grabs Dastan's arm to pull him away from the approaching crowd and to a tapestry hanging on the wall. It turns out to be concealing a door, and the pair duck through it and run for their lives (an endeavor complicated by the fact that Dastan's hands are still manacled behind his back).

As they pound through the long, unadorned corridor, Dastan wonders if this is the right thing to do—should he stay and try to prove his innocence? But that crowd wanted blood; Sharaman is wildly popular, and the officers of the army are wildly protective of him, and Dastan wonders if he would have survived to stand trial.

He's so baffled by recent events, and still so woozy, that it is a long time before it occurs to him how odd it is that Tamina is helping him escape. Before he can bring that up, however, she pulls him to a stop. "Hands!" she hisses, producing a key from somewhere in the robe she's wearing.

"How in the world . . .?"

"I stole it off that man who shackled you when we were all walking in the hall," she says as she unlocks his manacles. "I thought it might come in handy."

The manacles off, she grabs his hand and keeps running. Soon the corridor ends, letting them out by the stables. Now that they're outside, they can hear a roaring sound, and approaching footsteps; some of the Persians they just escaped from clearly had the idea to check the stables for him.

"Here they come," says Tamina.

"What in the world is going on?" Dastan gathers his wits enough to demand.

"There!" Tamina says, and points to a horse standing saddled and ready; clearly someone at the feast had been about to leave and had called for their horse but not yet fetched it. Near it stands an Alamutian man in very fine armor; he takes a step toward them, looking confused, but Tamina shakes her head and the man stands down.

"There they are!" comes a yell from somewhere nearby, and without further thought, Dastan climbs on the horse and reaches out a hand for Tamina; she'll know the quickest way out of here, and for some reason she seems to want to help.

Tamina climbs up behind him with graceful ease, and at Dastan's urging, the horse springs into action. Past their pursuers they gallop, and out into the city. Tamina proves invaluable; she knows the city intimately, and with her guidance they travel through unexpected paths until their pursuers are far behind them and they are galloping out of the city gate and into the wide open desert beyond.

o.o.o

They flee for what feels like ages, keeping close to cliffs and outcroppings so they won't be easily seen by pursuers. They're aiming for a group of hills some distance away where they can hide themselves, somewhere to lay low and regroup while he figures out what to do. The angry mob pursuing them in Alamut wouldn't have given him that time. Even with that, though, he knows that running makes him look guilty, and he wishes that it hadn't come to that. Behind him, Tamina is so silent that if she wasn't gripping his waist, he wouldn't have known she was there. It reminds him that of one thing he is certain: he shouldn't have let her come.  


The passage of time serves to clear out whatever was wrong with his head earlier, and eventually his mind is completely clear. They reach the hills Dastan was aiming for just before the last light from the setting sun disappears entirely, and luckily are quick to find what he considers a good spot for a camp—several escape routes available, a cliff to protect their backs, a tiny spring for water, a bit of wood for a fire. Dastan dismounts and sets to searching through the horse's saddle bags; it must belong to someone wealthy, who'd been planning to travel through the desert, because there is a fine long knife in there in addition to a water skin, a bit of food, a length of rope, a good bedroll and a tent of the sort travelers bring along in case of sandstorms. The owner may have been a large man, too; this horse is not as fine and muscular as the Persian warhorses, but it's strong and sturdy, enough that it didn't struggle at all under the weight of two riders.

He sets about making a fire while Tamina leads the horse to the water.  The pair of them are silent at first, until Tamina leads the horse back and finds Dastan staring into the flames of the fire he just made. Now that his mind is clear, the thoughts that have been swirling since he was accused of trying to kill his father have coalesced. "I didn't try to murder my father," he murmurs, as much to himself as to Tamina. "That robe was given to me by my brother. Tus did this." The idea that Tus would try to murder their father and leave Dastan to take the blame is just as painful as their father thinking Dastan had betrayed him.

Tamina seems to understand immediately. "If he'd succeeded, he would have stood to be crowned king."

She's right, of course; that must be the reason, and he wilts a little, to know that ambition and greed have overcome the bond between brothers. "I didn't kill my father," he repeats uselessly, seeing to the horse's saddle just to have something to distract him from her knowing gaze.

She steps closer. "I believe you."  


He doesn't turn. "You shouldn't be here," he says, chastising himself as much as her. What was he thinking, dragging an inexperienced woman with him into the harsh desert while he went on the run? "I shouldn't have let you come."  


"But you did," she says softly, and there's something surprisingly tender in her tone. Her hand touches his shoulder, turning him to face her, and there's no mistaking the look in her eyes. Does she have no sense of the gravity of their situation, to think that this is the right moment to try to kiss him? But on the other hand . . . she's never looked at him like that before. She's never stood that close to him before. Maybe she pities his situation, and this pity has turned to affection. Maybe all this time she's been as attracted to him as he's been to her, and this is the first moment they've had to be genuinely alone. And unconsciously he finds himself leaning in closer.

"I should send you back to Alamut," he says, pulling back, managing just for a moment focus on the part of his brain that's still rational, while the rest of him is demanding that he kiss her.

"You would send away your own wife?" Her breath ghosts over his lips.

He swallows, trying and failing to not stare at her mouth. "That's the . . . that's the problem. I should be protecting you, not dragging you out into danger."

"Well," she says, her voice low and throaty, as she takes him by the shoulders to turn him and back him up against the horse, "the solution would be to kiss me and then send me back to Alamut." Her voice drops to a whisper as her hand falls to his side. "But I have a better solution."

And that's it, Dastan's lost. All rational thought flies from his mind as he leans down; they can continue this conversation later, right? And they are only a heartbeat's width apart when he feels something entirely unexpected: Tamina is pulling the dagger out of his waistband. His soldier's instincts, too finely honed to be lulled to sleep even by the prospect of kissing a pretty woman, spring to life, and he grabs the princess's wrist and flings her away from him.

She falls against the horse, but he'd forgotten about the knife in the saddlebag; he's just given her a chance to arm herself. "I kill you," she shouts, swinging the knife toward him, "and your problems are solved!"

Despite his nearly debilitating surprise at her violent change in mood, he manages to dodge that swing, and the next few, but she's got him on the defensive, forcing him to back up to stay away from her surprisingly forceful onslaught. This is not the attack of a novice; the princess has clearly received weapons and combat training, and although he has no desire to get his throat slashed, he can't help but be a little impressed as she manages to get close enough to sever the pendant-bearing cord he wears around his neck—even as he wonders why on earth she's decided to attack him.  


"Perhaps we can find another solution!" he suggests.  


There's no use drawing the dagger; her long knife has much greater reach, and she'd skewer him before he got close enough to do anything. Thinking quickly, he whistles, hoping this horse is trained to move on command. And, thank goodness, it is: the horse obediently moves forward, its head bumping Tamina from behind forcefully enough that she falls forward, nearly into his arms. He grabs her sword hand and makes her drop the weapon, but she reacts quickly, using her free hand to grab the dagger from his belt.

It's here that she makes a mistake; her overhand attack with the dagger leaves her open and undefended for too long, and Dastan grabs her arm before she can bring the dagger down on his head. For a moment they struggle—she's surprisingly strong—and then he manages to knock the dagger from her hand. It flips end over end as it flies away, finally landing with the blade buried in the sand and the hilt pointing up. Dastan runs to grab it before Tamina can get the knife back, sliding to the ground and reaching out to grab the hilt. And that's when the most extraordinary moment of Dastan's life—even more than that moment Sharaman saved him in the marketplace—occurs.

As he grabs the hilt, his thumb comes down on the ruby at its end, and as he squeezes his hand to lift the dagger, the ruby sinks down, just a little. He barely has time to notice, because Tamina has found the knife and is running toward him with a fearsome battle cry, and he has to hurry to get up and rush to meet her, so much so that he doesn't notice that the dagger has started to glow and leave a trail of gold behind it in the air.  


Suddenly everything slows down, then stops—Tamina, rushing toward him, freezes in her position like a statue. Dastan feels strange for a moment, and suddenly he is no longer part of the scene, but standing to the side, watching it, as sometimes happens in dreams. But the scene is now running in reverse: his other self is picking up the dagger, he's knocking the dagger from Tamina's hands, she's grabbing the dagger from his waistband. Dastan has little time to watch this copy of himself, though; he's instead staring in wonder at the dagger, which is now glowing and releasing trails of gold mist and glowing specks that are creeping up his arm, in a display that would be beautiful if he weren't so confused and concerned.

In his distraction, his grip on the dagger loosens, and his thumb stops pressing the ruby. Instantly he is sucked back into himself—his backwards moving self—and somehow it's suddenly thirty seconds earlier than it was. Tamina once again has her hands on his shoulders, all traces of the fierce warrior he was just facing gone; once again she is saying, "Well, the solution would be to kiss me and then send me back to Alamut."  


Dastan is barely paying attention to her, staring instead at his arm, which is no longer holding the dagger and no longer glowing. But she reaches for the dagger in his waistband again, and again his warrior instincts grab her arm and push her away against the horse. But this time, when she goes for the knife, he's too stunned by what has just happened to react in time; her first swipe catches him across the chest, and goes deep.

Unbelievable—he's just traveled through time, and his wife has just killed him.   


"Give back what you stole, Persian!" she yells, as he falls to his knees and stares in equal confusion at the princess and the wound on his chest.

But he has a way—impossible and astounding but somehow very real—to change this. Ignoring the pain that comes when he moves his arm, he reaches for the dagger and once again pushes the ruby on the hilt, Tamina's angry "No!" echoing in his ears. Once again he is pulled from himself, watching and glowing as the scene plays backward; the pain in his chest stops as they travel past Tamina's attack.  


He very carefully doesn't release his hold on the ruby—he wants to see how far they can go back—but for some reason the magic stops anyway, and he is once again standing by the horse, Tamina's hand on his shoulder. He blinks. "Did you see that?"

"See what?" she says, then, clearly hoping to catch him off guard, reaches for the knife on the horse's back. But he's expecting it now, and he catches her arm easily. "Go for that sword again, and I swear I'll break your arm," he says, which is probably not the sort of thing he ought to say to a princess, particularly when that princess is his wife, but she _has_ tried to kill him twice in the last minute. Nearly succeeded once, too.

She stares at him in surprise until understanding dawns in her expression. "Again?" she demands, and looks over at the dagger.

He lifts it and experimentally pushes the ruby again. It makes a clicking sound, which he hadn't noticed in the commotion earlier, but nothing happens.  


Tamina looks livid. "You've used up all the sand!"

He blinks. "What?"  And that's when he realizes two things: she knows perfectly well what the dagger does, but she didn't know he'd used it until he said something.

"What is this?" he demands.

She says nothing, simply stares warily at him.

"Incredible," he says, more to himself than her, piecing together what he's just experienced and what she's just said. "Releasing the sand —" for apparently that was the substance he'd glimpsed in the glass hilt, and the particles that had glowed and swirled around him as time unwound —  " turns back time, and only the holder of the dagger is aware of what's happened. He could go back and alter events, change time. And no one knows it but him. How much can it unwind?"

The wariness on her face is turning to anger, and something like fatigue, and still she says nothing.  


"Answer me, princess," he demands.

When she does respond, her voice is laced with venom. "You destroyed my city."

But Dastan's mind has caught onto a new thought, and he has to follow it. "Our invasion wasn't about weapons forges, it was about this dagger," he realizes. The disaster back in Alamut, momentarily forgotten after Tamina attacked, returns to the forefront of his mind. "After the battle, Tus asked for this dagger as tribute," he remembers. "I didn't think anything of it, but now I see. With it, he could change anything. He could change the course of a critical moment in battle; he could foresee the blade of a rival. He wouldn't just be the king, he'd be the most powerful ruler Persia ever seen, greater even than my father."

Tamina just stares at him, something like defensiveness in her expression, and for a moment he could swear tears are glittering in her eyes.

"It was all about this dagger!" he concludes, with an exhilarating confidence that he's right, that he's just solved the puzzle: Tus ordering the invasion, his dogged search for the forges, his giving Dastan the poisoned robe. Tus wants to be king, and he wants to secure his reign for a very long time.

Tamina finally speaks, and there's a knife's edge in her voice. "So I was right the first time: Persians are brutal, and without honor."

Dastan would like to object, but the fact is that the crown prince of Persia is apparently a villain of the highest degree, so she's a little justified in her ill opinion. Instead he thinks to himself how gratifying it is to know that he was right the first time: the placating and polite princess he's been dealing with the last few days is an act.

But then a thought hits him like a runaway cart: he's thinking about how polite she's been, and how angry she was the day they get betrothed, and even about the fact that she seems to have drugged his wine tonight, and all the pieces come together and he realizes aloud, "You only married me to stay close to this dagger."

She says nothing, but her jaw takes on a stubborn set.

"You married me to stay close to the dagger, and you drugged my wine tonight so you could take it while I was unconscious." He thinks a moment, then his eyes widen in realization. "And all those times I thought someone had been rummaging through my things in the palace—they were looking for this!" He gestures with the dagger. "That was why you had me move into the palace early, isn't it—to search through my things at your leisure? I imagine you didn't fancy your luck trying to take it off me by force, when we were surrounded by the Persian army." He thinks a moment. "And if you'd found the dagger before the wedding, you would have called it off, I suppose—we're only married because I'm better at hiding than you are at finding." She's still just glaring at him, and he demands, "Admit I'm right, princess."

And finally she says sharply, "I certainly didn't marry you for your charming personality."

A strange feeling courses through him, like the ground has dropped away from underneath his feet. He's . . . sorry to hear that, to his immense surprise. He doesn't have feelings for her, and he's never been foolish enough to think that she has any for him, but they _are_ married, and he'd thought that one day they might . . . he'd even hoped . . .

He shakes his head, as though to dislodge the treacherous thought. "Why did you want the dagger?"

She shrugs. "You saw what it did."

Yes he did, and he thinks he'd rather like to see it again. So he stoops down and gathers a handful of sand, preparing to pour it into the hilt.

But her voice stops him. "Without the right sand, it's just another dagger," she says. "It's not even very sharp."

"This sand—is there more of it?" he asks.

The look she gives him makes him feel like he's a moron for even asking. "Of course not," she says disdainfully.

He doesn't believe her for a second. And he knows that if he is to prove his innocence, he'll have to prove Tus's guilt, and to do that, it would really help if he could show everyone this dagger—show them what could have tempted the crown prince to such villainy. That would mean finding more of "the right sand," and he doesn't even know where to start. But first things first: he considers their situation a moment, then declares, "Tomorrow I'm taking you back. There's a spot outside Alamut where I know the Persian patrols will find you."

Her brow furrows. "But—"

"I never should have let you come in the first place," he says. "And now I'm taking you back. I'd do it now, if we had a fresh horse and there were enough light to ride by."

He pulls the bedroll from its saddlebag and shoves it unceremoniously into Tamina's arms. His own bed he makes from the tent covering in the other saddlebag, and he lays down with the dagger and the knife she attacked him with tucked beneath him. Behind him, he can hear her shuffling around, then finally settling down onto her bedroll. He very determinedly ignores the sound of her breathing, along with the thought that he'd assumed that the first time he fell asleep beside her would be under very different circumstances.

This is certainly not how he'd expected to spend his wedding night.

His mind is still reeling with everything that's happened today, and everything that he'll have to do in response: Tus's betrayal, the loss of Sharaman's trust, the revelation about his marriage, Tamina trying to drug him and then stab him, and how is he going to prove his innocence, and will the extensive marriage contracts make it harder to annul his marriage?

A normal man would never get to sleep at this rate. But Dastan has been fighting for his life in one way or another for as long as he can remember, and he learned long ago how to still himself long enough to fall asleep. He forces himself to relax, one tight muscle group at a time, and uses the meditation techniques his father taught him many years ago to empty his mind and sweep it clean. In no time at all, he is asleep.

o.o.o


	5. Chapter 5

o.o.o

When the morning comes, the air is warm but the mood in their makeshift camp is still quite chilly. Tamina wakes at the same time as him, and they avoid eye contact, and each other, as they tidy up and prepare the horse to ride. At some point in the night she took off the elaborate outer garment she was wearing—probably very uncomfortable to sleep in—and is now bustling about in the white shift that was meant for their wedding night. It's actually very demure and modest, and could pass for day wear in some cities, but remembering what it was intended for makes him acutely aware of how she looks in it.

He's still trying to ignore her, but when he sees she's gone to the stream to wash her face and see to her hair, her back turned to him, he can't help looking at her, just for a moment. Watching her braiding her hair feels very domestic, but the feeling doesn't last long; he remembers pretty quickly that she's a liar who only married him to get her hands on a magical dagger, and in fact tried to drug him on their wedding night to steal that dagger.

"Where will you go?" she asks as she comes back. Now that it's light out, he can't help noticing that she's only wearing the thin slippers she'd had on last night in their chambers, and the sudden and inexplicable guilt he feels about that distracts him a little as he answers.

"To my brothers," he says. "To find a way to prove that it was Tus who has betrayed our family, and to get Garsiv on my side."

"And how will you manage that?"

He'd be suspicious of her sudden desire to converse with him—he's seen before that she has no qualms about lying to him to get what she wants—if not for the tone of her voice. This is not the fake tranquility of their engagement; she sounds tired and a bit irritable. "I'm still figuring that out. I'd have preferred to go my uncle Nizam for help; he's the only one I can trust. But he's still in the city, with my father; I'd never get close to him." He hesitates. "And he was calling for my blood last night," he remembers, and the thought that his beloved uncle could turn on him so completely is almost as bad as Sharaman coming to hate him. "I suppose I'll just have to convince Garsiv it was Tus that gave me that robe." He scowls. "If I could only show him how this dagger works—"

"Dastan, you could not!" she declares. He raises his eyebrows, surprised, and she points out, "Would you really lay such temptation before a prince and a warrior? Perhaps Garsiv would turn against you to obtain it, the way that Tus has done."

She might have a point, actually, but that can't matter to him right now. Proving that he did not betray his own father is his top priority, and he'll figure out the rest later. "I'd take that risk," he says, though in truth it doesn't matter, because they don't have any more sand and that is that.

She sighs, then, taking the horse by the reins, looks around for a moment. "Lambsar is, I believe, that direction." She gestures toward the east.

"Yes it is," he agrees, "but we're going to Alamut first."

"So you said," she responds patiently, "but I don't think that's a very good idea."

"Oh?" What a know-it-all this woman is. "Why do you say that?"

"Lambsar and Alamut are in opposite directions of each other," she points out. "You'll lose hours if you take me back, and your brothers already have quite the head start on you."

"Yes, but dragging a princess with no survival experience along with me won't do me any good either."

"But might it not be useful to have someone to help you when you reach Lambsar?" She scoffs. "Dastan, you're planning on wandering into the midst of the Persian army's finest, while wanted for the attempted murder of the king. You could use someone on your side who people don't suspect, given that your whole plan is suicide."

"My brother tried to murder my father and leave his blood on my hands," he snaps. "If I die trying to set that right, then so be it."

"Well, what about me?" she demands. "While you're planning to die for honor, did you think for a moment about your own wife? I helped you escape last night! Everyone saw that! If I return to Alamut, I'll be in nearly as much trouble as you are. I don't think you Persians look kindly on someone aiding and abetting the man who tried to assassinate their king."

She's right, and for a moment he hates for her it. But he's not ready to concede defeat. "I'm not dragging you across the desert to a battlefield," he informs her as he climbs into the saddle." And surely you can talk your way out of any punishment; you're quite good at lying, as it turns out."

She scowls. "If you take me back to Alamut, I'm going to tell them exactly where you're going. We may not have many soldiers in Alamut, but we have some of the fastest horses in the region. How long do you think it'll take them to catch up with you?"

He glares down at her; she looks most unlovingly back. But finally he relents—not because of her threat, but because she's right: she'll be in a great deal of trouble if she returns to Alamut before Dastan proves his innocence. He should have thought of that already, and he's angry with himself that he didn't. And all she wants is to stay close to this magical dagger, and it won't kill him to let her do so. He has no intention of letting her get her hands on it, but she doesn't need to know that.

Still, giving in would be an easier pill to swallow if she wasn't so thoroughly unpleasant about it. "Oh, give me the strength not to kill her," he mutters under his breath as he reaches a hand down to pull her up. She gives him a self-satisfied smirk and springs easily up behind him, and soon the prince and princess of Alamut are trotting toward Lambsar.

o.o.o

At midmorning they reach a stream and stop to get a drink. The rancor of earlier has dimmed, and now they are both more subdued in their irritation with each other.

They exchange a few words: she dislikes the taste of the slightly brackish water, and claims that "the wells of Alamut are famed for their clear, cold water."

"Perhaps less time admiring your wells, and more time guarding your walls, and you wouldn't be here," he retorts, and earns a scowl in return.

"How far to Lambsar?" she asks a few moments later.

"We'll reach it by tomorrow evening, if we're lucky," he says. "If we're not, possibly the morning after that." He thinks, but does not say, that if he were riding alone, he'd arrive much sooner. But now that his temper has cooled, he can admit that all the reasons she gave for coming along with him make sense. It's not going to help his quest any, but he knows can't sentence her to her own dungeons by sending her back to Alamut.

"Well after your brothers arrive, then," she says.

He nods. "They should still be there, though, given that they need to drive out Kosh's forces, refortify the outpost, then give themselves time to rest."

She glances over him then. "Dastan," she says, "where's the dagger?"

Tucked into the back of his waistband, hidden under his shirt, is the answer to that question, but he, seized with the urge to annoy her some more, simply smirks. "You're welcome to search me for it," he says, "but you'll have to be very thorough."

She gives him a disgusted look and goes back to drinking.

Not long after, they're back on the horse, and they ride until midday, when the sweltering heat makes riding any longer unbearable. Tamina has folded up her heavy outer robe and placed it in the saddlebag—apparently it's far too hot with it on—but this leaves her lower arms uncovered, and Dastan worries about how badly her skin could burn in this sun; they need to find a place to shelter for a while. And luck is with them—or, as Tamina exclaims, "Our journey is blessed!"—when they come across a tiny oasis.

"We'll rest an hour or so," says Dastan. "Get some sleep, if you can; we need to walk the horse after this, so you'll need your energy."

They water themselves and the horse, and Dastan remakes his bed out of the tent covering and settles in for a nap in the shade of the trees, the dagger and the knife tucked close to him. He hears cloth rustling close by and assumes that Tamina has pulled out the bedroll to follow suit. But he can't sleep at first, which is unusual for him; he's worried about his father, who's already been the target of one assassination attempt, and he's worried about Garsiv, who doesn't know that the trusted brother he travels with is a would-be murderer. So it's a long time before sleep overcomes him.

The shade is pleasant and cool, the stream running nearby a pleasant background to his sleep, but a peaceful nap is not in the cards for him, it seems: he feels that he's only been asleep a few minutes when he is roused by a gentle tugging sensation on his arm. His eyes fly open and he sees Tamina bent over him, clearly trying to take the dagger from him without waking him, and instinct kicks in: he grabs her wrist, making her drop the dagger, then tosses her to his other side so she lands on the ground a few feet away. He's up in a defensive stance before the sleep has cleared from his eyes, and embarrassment and regret seize him before she's even gotten her feet back under her.

But she's not as furious as he'd expected at the way he's just manhandled her—her indignant huff and scowl show her to be more annoyed at being thwarted than anything. Still, his shock at what he's just done forces an apology out of his mouth. "Sorry, are you all right?"

"Ah," she says sharply, brushing sand and grass off her shift, clearly unhurt, "so you've never apologized for invading my city or killing my people, but you are, at least, sorry for this. That's something, I suppose."

His dismay transforms instantly to irritation. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't leave you here and ride away," he growls as he puts the dagger and the knife through his belt and gathers up the tent cover he's been sleeping on, shoving it into the saddlebag with more force than necessary. The horse has been untied from the tree and readied for riding; clearly she meant to use it for a quick getaway.

She has the gall to look offended at the question. "Oh!" she snarls, "wouldn't that be nice? Noble Dastan, abandoning his helpless wife in the wilderness. What does your precious honor have to say about that?"

"Gentle Tamina, trying to steal from her husband while he sleeps. And take off with the horse and leave me here to die, I assume?" Tamina looks a little guilty at that, and Dastan smirks. "What does your precious civility have to say about that?"

She makes the funniest sound at that, an indignant little "Ooh!" that he might have found endearing, under different circumstances.

"I meant it, by the way," he says as he makes quick work of the bedroll and puts it back in the saddlebag. "I can't trust you now. I'm not going to cross the desert with someone who's going to take the first chance she gets to steal from me and then take off on my horse and leave me in the middle of nowhere."

"It's not your horse!" she exclaims, then quickly adds, "Or at least, it's as much mine as it is yours. And you wouldn't be out here for long. Surely a traveler would stop at an oasis like this soon enough."

"Precisely," he says. "And that's why you're staying here."

He's surprised her glare doesn't turn him into stone, but even that poisonous look can't completely distract him from noticing how beautiful she looks with so much passion flashing in her eyes. Diplomatic princess Tamina is stunning, but firebrand warrior Tamina is even more so. Really not the time to be thinking about this, he decides.

"Yes, because travelers love taking on passengers who can't pay," she spits out, as he takes the horse's reins in his hands and prepares to mount so he can make a quick getaway. "And what will your honor have to say when the next person who shows up here turns out to have less-than-honorable intentions toward a beautiful, defenseless woman?"

At that he stops dead, because she's right. He lost his head for a moment—she has a way of making him do that—but she's right: leaving Tamina at the mercy of whatever trader or traveler or bandit who might find her could end very badly for her. He wouldn't wish that on any woman, and his honor certainly won't allow him to do it to his own wife. "Who said you're beautiful?" he retorts, to give himself more time to think.

"There must be a reason you can't take your eyes off me."

He's never going to get the last word as long as she's around, is he? His worst fear about this marriage is coming true: that after the wedding, Tamina would show her true colors and he'd be trapped for the rest of his life with a woman who makes no attempt to hide how much she hates him. He growls, then turns to her. "You may come with me, if you agree to sleep with your hands tied tonight."

"What?" she sputters. "What if I need to protect myself?"

"I'll protect you," he promises. "But I'm not very keen to have you kill me in my sleep to take the dagger. Do you agree?"

She glares. "Fine."

He nods and, giving up on his intention to mount the horse, leads it away from the stream instead. "Keep up," he commands. "We're walking the horse for a while."

He's not sure why he glances back at her; he should have known that it would be self-satisfaction that graces her face, not gratitude. "Never get married," he tells the horse seriously. "It's been nothing but trouble for me so far."

But if he'd hoped that he'd at least ended the argument, he's quite wrong. "You know, you really walk like one," she snipes from behind him as they leave the oasis. "Head held high, chest out, long stomping strides. The walk of a self-satisifed Persian prince." He refuses to look back and grace her ranting with a response—at least, until she adds. "No doubt it comes from being told since birth that the world is yours, and actually believing it."

"Because you're such a shining example of humility, Princess?" he shoots back.

"I'm humble enough not to invade a city and then expect a hero's welcome into it," she retorts. "I'm humble enough not to think I'm doing the rest of the world a favor by conquering them and absorbing them into my empire!"

And that is quite enough. "You married into the Persian empire," he reminds her, whirling around to glare at her. "You chose this."

She lets out a bark of disbelieving laughter. "You think I chose this?" she demands. "With your army surrounding my city and your family in my palace and your brother telling you to kill me if I refused to marry him? Yes, of course I know about that!" she snaps in response to the sudden change in his expression. "I have spies everywhere." She rolls her eyes. "Do you really think, given all that, that _choice_ had anything to do with my marrying you?"

And now he can only stare in surprise. "You didn't—I mean, I know the dagger was your main motivation, but . . . you didn't even think this would be a useful political alliance?"

"Well, it is now!" she rages. "Other nations used to respect Alamut's position as a politically neutral, holy city. But now that we've been absorbed by the Persian empire, we are fair game to anyone who might want to invade. You have forced us to require your protection."

"It would have happened eventually," he retorts. "If not in our lifetime, then in the future. Isn't it better that if you had to be absorbed by someone, it was the Persian empire?"

"Spoken like a true Persian, to assume that anyone would welcome your domination. But what else could I expect from a man who believed he was doing me a favor by forcing me away from my home and my people and then allowing me to visit occasionally?"

He massages the bridge of his nose, suddenly very tired. "So I take it you never wanted to move to Nasaf?"

"Of course not!" she shouts. "I am sole monarch and high priestess of Alamut! Leaving that to become wife to a younger son of a foreign king is a huge step downward for me, do you understand that?" She shakes her head. "Of course not. You assume I'd be perfectly happy to rust in disuse as part of your harem, like all the other brainless concubines you have waiting for you at home."

"I don't have any concubines at home!" he shouts. "You're the only woman in my life!" He breaks off, embarrassed, and she stares at him with equal surprise and discomfort, and he looks away and wraps the reins tighter around his hands. "Look," he says in a quieter voice, "clearly I've been wrong about a few things, but you have as well. You're wrong if you think I'm not sorry about invading Alamut; I was sorry before it happened, and I'm more sorry now, and I'm sorry I didn't see through Tus's plot. And I'm always sorry about the deaths of innocents. And I'm sorry I threw you earlier, even if I didn't mean to, and even if it was self-defense from you pickpocketing me; I don't believe men should be violent toward their wives."

He can't read her expression; her face has settled into a scowl, but there's something in her eyes that he can't put his finger on.

"And now, I suggest we get moving; we have a lot of ground to cover before we reach Lambsar. And I would like to suggest we travel without talking; we seem to be incapable of talking without fighting, and I'd rather save my energy for the journey."

"Fine," she says, and lifts her chin as she stalks past him, but that something strange in her expression hasn't disappeared. And he shakes his head and follows after.

They travel in silence for the rest of the afternoon, breaking that rule only long enough to mount the horse after a few hours of walking. They ride until dark falls, and set up camp, and Tamina glares at him while he binds her hands together.

"I'm not going to kill you," she says reasonably. "The gods frown on murder, especially of family members."

"Tell them I appreciate that, would you?" he says. "But you're still sleeping with your hands tied."

She doesn't kill him. Dastan sleeps with the knife and the dagger tucked in even more closely to him than last night, and Tamina doesn't try anything; perhaps she's given up trying to get it back.

o.o.o


	6. Chapter 6

o.o.o

When the morning comes, Dastan braces himself for another day of arguing, but it never arrives; maybe a good night's rest helped, or maybe they've both said everything that needed to be said, but whatever the reason, they are downright civil to each other as they pack up camp.

That doesn't keep Tamina from complaining, though, particularly about her hunger; they finished what food there was in the saddlebags yesterday at midday, and neither of them has eaten since. Dastan can't really blame her; he's a hardened soldier, used to this sort of deprivation, but it must be unbearable for a princess who isn't accustomed to it.

So when he spots a familiar-looking line of dark shapes in the distance, he looks down at his clothing, and then at the saddlebag that stores the ornate robe Tamina was wearing when they fled Alamut, and then he smiles at her. "Let's go get some food."

The shapes in the distance are, as he'd guessed, a trading caravan, large and well-guarded to protect the goods from bandits; Dastan is, for once, grateful Tamina is there, because the presence of a woman seems to put the guards more at ease, and they give him leave to talk to the head trader.

The head trader, Arash, is a good-natured Persian man in sixties; his wife, Manizeh, joins him in meeting with Dastan and Tamina. Fortunately for Dastan, they have never been to Nasaf and clearly don't recognize their own prince; he's not sure how widely the news of his supposed crime has been spread, but it's good to keep his head down either way. Arash and Manizeh are traveling with their grown children, as well as a handful of fellow merchants, to trade in Mazandaran province in the north. Dastan introduces himself as Rashan and Tamina as Simbar.

Tamina has reluctantly agreed to let Dastan do the talking, as he's much more familiar with Persian customs than she, and she stands quietly while Dastan displays her ornate robe to the traders. The old couple examine the beautiful fabric with critical eye, but shrewdly make no comments aloud, not allowing Dastan to guess what their appraisal is.

"What are you asking for it?" Arash asks.

"A change of clothing for each of us," Dastan says. "Something simple, and more suitable for desert travel." And something with long enough sleeves to keep Tamina from getting sunburned, although he doesn't mention that; that's the sort of clothing the traders will have with them anyway, and he doesn't want her thinking that he's concerned about her. "And a week's food." They don't need a week's food, but starting high will mean that when the traders try to haggle him down, he'll end up with three or four days, which is what he wants.

It's a reasonable request, and Arash's expression says he's willing to negotiate, but Manizeh steps in. "Where did you get such a fine garment?" she asks, suspicion in her eyes. "It's far too good for anyone to willingly ride a horse through the desert in it. And why are you wandering out here without food?"

Dastan has a story ready, about him and his sister getting separated from their traveling party, but before he can, Manizeh looks at Tamina. "You've said very little, young woman. You tell me: what is going on here?"

That's not good; he never shared his cover story with her. But of course Tamina is fine; she's an excellent liar, and she comes up with her own story quickly. "I prefer to let my Rashan do the talking," she says sweetly, and Dastan fights back a snort, because he's sure she's never said that sentence about anyone before. "The robe is mine," she goes on. "I was wearing it when I left Alamut."

"Yes, I thought the work was Alamutian," says Arash knowingly.

"And I—" Tamina hesitates, then reaches forward and clasps Manizeh's hands. "You won't tell anyone, will you? About me and Rashan?" She sounds convincingly worried and beseeching, and Dastan bites back a smile.

"What about you?" Arash asks.

"We've eloped," lies Tamina. "My father was furious when I told him I wanted to marry a Persian officer, but—" And she turns to look at Dastan, her expression full of rather convincing affection. "You can't help who you fall in love with."

Manizeh's expression softens, and she wraps her hand around her husband's.

"We left Alamut very quickly; my father had decided to send me away until Rashan left the city," Tamina goes on. "That's why we're so ill-prepared for desert travel."

Hmm. Her story is better than his, he admits, and the traders seem to be buying the elopement lie. Time to start acting in love, then. He places an arm around Tamina's shoulder and pulls her a little closer. "And why we need the change of clothing," he says. "We're trying to blend in, should her father send anyone after us."

Arash and Manizeh step away for a moment to converse, and Dastan, quite without meaning to, finds himself rubbing his thumb back and forth across Tamina's shoulder blade. She looks over at him, startled, and he freezes. Before he can respond, though, the traders return. "We don't travel with any textiles to trade," says Manizeh, "but we can contribute from our own wardrobes, if you're willing to accept that. They'll certainly help you blend in, at least."

"And we can't spare a week's worth of food," says Arash, "but we can give you three days', as well as share a meal with you now."

"It is acceptable," says Dastan, and the men shake hands.

Ten minutes later, Dastan is changing into clothing cobbled together from pieces the various traders could spare. His current trousers and shirt will go into the saddlebags, just in case, along with Tamina's shift; they were mostly too damaged by travel to be worth trading, but with so few resources to their names at the moment, he's not throwing away anything. Looking at the fine trousers and shirt reminds him that two days ago he put that clothing on to wear to his wedding, and the thought of how much has happened since then makes him want to laugh or cry, he can't decide which.

Tamina, he sees when he comes out, has been similarly dressed in the simple, sturdy clothing of a desert traveler; it will protect her from the elements and the landscape far better than that shift did. Up close, she'd never fool anyone into thinking she's the commoner she's dressed as, with her soft hands and perfect skin still dyed in ornate patterns from their wedding day, but from far away she looks like just another trader.

He takes her hands and kisses them, one then the other, slow and deliberate. "You look radiant, dearest," he says, partly for the benefit of Manizeh, standing nearby, and partly to annoy Tamina.

His clever wife, however, doesn't miss a beat. "I should hope you think so," she says coyly. "That's why you married me, isn't it?"

Manizeh chuckles at the newlyweds, but Dastan, uncomfortably reminded that Tamina seems to know perfectly well how attractive he finds her, reluctantly concedes this round to his wife.

Breakfast is a simple but appetizing spread of fruits and nuts and flatbreads. Tamina, seated at Dastan's side, keeps her table manners pristine, but he can see in her eyes that she would like to stuff the whole contents of the table into her mouth.

"Enjoying yourself?" he chuckles to her when he sees her eyes close with pleasure over a nearly fresh fig.

She appears to be too happy to be short with him. "I can't remember the last time a fig tasted so good," she enthuses, and he knows this cheerful version of her is largely an act for the merchants' sakes, but he wonders if maybe her delight with finally eating is dismantling the wall she's built around herself, just a little. Maybe she's like this among those she likes and trusts.

The rest of the caravan joins them, and they spend the meal asking the couple about their courtship and how they decided to get married. Tamina fields these questions with such ease that Dastan nearly believes her. He doesn't feel quite so bad about having been taken in by her during their engagement, because she is indeed a master liar.

"And I knew that if he left Alamut without me . . . I'd regret it for the rest of my life." She gives the assembled group a shy smile, and several of the merchants actually sigh.

"So was it love at first sight?" a young woman asks eagerly. "Rashan, what was your first meeting like?"

He's gotten so used to Tamina doing the speaking that the question catches him completely off-guard, and in his surprise, he tells the truth. "At our first meeting, she insulted my father," he says, and everyone gasps, happily scandalized, while Tamina looks warily at him out of the corner of her eye. Well, now he has to stick with the story. "If you met my father, you'd be even more shocked," he assures them. "He is a very impressive person. He is not accustomed to people talking back to him."

"'Insulted' is a strong word—" Tamina begins, looking annoyed.

He grins and, without thinking, takes her hand in his. "I was shocked at first, but . . . what she said to him, he deserved, at least a little, although I didn't see that at the time."

She's examining his face now, and he can't read the expression in her eyes.

"And I thought, 'She's insane, but she's brave.' And I . . . couldn't help but admire that."

"You never told me that," she says quietly.

He shrugs. "Well, I was still rather offended, for Father's sake." A sudden longing lances through his chest as he thinks of his father. Sharaman, whom he loves so dearly, now thinks him a traitor and would-be assassin. And proving his innocence means proving his brother's guilt. No matter what happens, their family will be ripped apart in some way or another. He tries to keep his feelings from his face, but perhaps he fails, because Tamina seems to press her hand into his, just a little.

But he must be imagining things. Tamina is hardly going to comfort him.

"And you, Simbar?" asks the same young woman. "What did you think of him?"

Tamina turns her smile on Dastan, and this time he knows he's not imagining her squeezing his hand: another act. "I thought he was the most handsome man I'd ever seen, and the most arrogant."

And as he turns a surprised look on her, he thinks she might just be telling the truth too.

o.o.o

They bid the caravan goodbye not long after, pack the food away in the horse's saddlebags, and set out again for Lambsar. Dastan worries they rode the horse too much yesterday, so he makes them walk for the first few hours. And it's a much more pleasant experience than yesterday; he and Tamina say little to each other, but what they do say is quite cordial, and they manage to only insult each other twice.

That peace is broken, however, when they stop in the heat of the afternoon to rest by a stream. Tamina is only too ready for a nap, being unused to so much walking and so much exposure to the sun, but she balks when Dastan again insists on her tying her hands. "I haven't earned your trust yet?" she demands.

"You mean, has a day and a half been long enough for me to forget you married me just to rob me, drugged me on our wedding night, attacked me with a knife, and tried to steal the dagger and the horse and leave me to die?" He makes a show of considering this.

She rolls her eyes at him. "Well, if you hadn't hidden the dagger so well, I wouldn't have had to marry you to get at it. You could be a happy bachelor right now."

"A regret I will carry to my grave," he assures her, and she rolls her eyes at him but eventually reluctantly holds out her arms.

The truth is he doesn't like doing this; he knows from experience that it's harder to sleep with your hands tied, and it feels strange to treat a princess (who happens to be his own wife) like a criminal. But if that little show at breakfast has taught him anything, it's that she's a very good liar. Any closeness he feels to her—and he has to admit that he does feel closer to her after this morning—is very likely just the result of her skills at deception.

When they are both settled on the ground, and he's got the dagger and the knife carefully stowed around his body, he's about to drop off to sleep when she speaks. "What will you do?" she asks, and he turns his head to see her staring up at the tree above them. "If you can't prove your innocence?"

A frown creases his brow. "Keep trying," he says. "If I don't have my family, I don't have anything worth having."

She hmms in response. He thinks she's going to stop talking so he can go to sleep, but then she speaks up again. "Your father said you're adopted," she says. She rolls her head to the side so she can look over at him. "Can I ask about that?"

He suddenly remembers how he'd wondered, back during their brief engagement, if she knew about his past and if it would change her mind about him. He'd worried about the prospect then, back when he still thought that their marriage might work out. He supposes that now that he knows it's all been a sham and a ruse, and that it's going to end in divorce as soon as they get back to Alamut, it doesn't matter what she thinks of him.

In fact, he suddenly thinks he'd rather like to shock her. So he tells her bluntly, "I was born in the slums of Nasaf, where I lived if I fought and I clawed for it."

This surprises her, he can tell, and he supposes she'd assumed, as so many others have, that the youngest prince had been adopted from another noble family (or, as certain rumors have always held, that he's an illegitimate child of Sharaman's). "And how did you become a prince?"

Dastan turns his face up toward the sky, trying to hide from Tamina the emotions that must be flitting across it. He thinks of the best day of his life, of the man he loves as dearly as any son could, and firmly tells his eyes that they are not allowed to water. "The king marched into the market one day, and he . . . I don't know, he . . . he found me. He took me in, he gave me a family, he gave me a home."

"You love him very much," she observes, and something wistful crosses her face, just for a moment.

"More than anything," he confesses. "I love all of them. I would do anything for my family."

She gives him a thoughtful look. "Does that include me now?"

He blinks in surprise. What answer is she expecting to that question? Is it genuine or is she just being facetious? He decides to answer flippantly, just in case. "Depends," he says. "Are you going to stop trying to kill me?"

She laughs aloud at that—a surprised, warm sound—and it might be the first time he's heard her do so. He thinks again that maybe she's like this among those she likes and trusts. And then he thinks that under different circumstances, where they're not fighting over the same magical dagger, he might like to be one of those people.

o.o.o

After their nap, they press on, riding horseback. The tension of yesterday's ride, where she sat so stiffly and tried to avoid touching him as much as possible, seems to be gone; he can feel how relaxed she is as she holds loosely onto his waist. They say little, and see no signs of human life. In fact the only thing of interest that they see, in the late afternoon, is a string of sand dervishes—not an unusual sight in the desert, but he's never seen so many at once, lined up in a perfect row. He shrugs it off, though; they're only sand dervishes, after all, and common as camel dirt.

He'd hoped to make Lambsar tonight, for the sake of his own peace of mind if nothing else, but by the time the sun starts setting, they're still more than two hours away, so reluctantly he stops to make camp. Tamina excuses herself to disappear around the edge of a hill, and she's gone for so long that he starts to wonder if she's run off. When he goes to find her, he's surprised to find her kneeling on the ground, eyes closed, her palms lifted heavenward in the same gesture of supplication he saw at the wedding. She's praying, he realizes, and backs away as silently as possible.

He'd forgotten that he's heard her referred to as a high priestess several times, and the thought sets his mind to whirring as he ponders the implications of that statement, and of her being here. His curiosity is piqued, so he finds himself asking her a question as she returns to camp.

"So you're a high priestess, right?"

"I'm _the_ high priestess," she corrects, "of the faith of Alamut."

"And what does that entail?"

She eyes him, clearly wondering why he's suddenly interested. "I intercede with the gods for my people," she says, "and I perform rites and rituals in the high temple."

"So it's pretty important, I guess."

Something a bit imperious enters her expression. "Very."

"And you take it pretty seriously."

She fixes her eyes on him. "It's the most important role I play," she says. "More than being princess of Alamut."

Right into his trap. "In that case," he says with a smirk, "why are you here?"

She blinks.

"If your religious duties are the most important thing in the world to you, why are you chasing a dagger through the desert? Surely they need you back in Alamut. What about the rituals and the interceding?"

She's pretty good at hiding her feelings when she wants to, but the flickering of her eyes from side to side gives her away.

"I mean, you have servants and soldiers, right? Why not send them?" Still she is silent. "The way I figure it," he says, "either you're lying about the importance of the high priestess, or you're lying about the dagger." He hesitates. "Or you're a terrible high priestess," he muses. "Maybe you've abandoned your city and your faith and your gods for the prospect of the ability to change time."

As he'd expected, she is stung into words by the accusation. "I would never!" she declares. He merely raises his eyebrows at her, and finally she relents. "I do not seek the dagger for myself," she says, then hesitates. "I was not entirely truthful with you."

"Color me surprised," he says sarcastically.

She rolls her eyes at him. "The dagger is not some trinket that found its way into my city; it is a sacred relic of Alamut—our most sacred relic. As high priestess, protecting it is one of my most important duties."

He nods. "So when Father proposed our marriage . . ."

It's amazing how she manages to look down her nose at him, despite being so much shorter than him. "As we've already established, I knew my options were to marry you or, very likely, be killed. But I knew that you had the dagger, and I realized that I could kill two birds with one stone, as it were. I could stay close to the dagger while placating the invading force in my palace." 

He shifts uncomfortably as he remembers that she genuinely feared—and with good reason—that refusing this marriage would have led to bloodshed. So he simply says. "Still, to marry someone you hate, from a kingdom you hate . . . was protecting the dagger really worth spending the rest of your life with a Persian prince?"

An odd expression flits across her face. "Well, as you deduced, I'd been hoping I'd be able to find the dagger before the wedding occurred, so I wouldn't have to go through with it." But he saw that strange look on her face, and he has the feeling that she's not telling him the whole truth. That's understandable, though; the priests in Nasaf have their secrets, things they don't tell laymen because they are too sacred. He imagines he could press her for days and not get an answer.

So instead of pursuing the subject, he examines the dagger a moment in the firelight. "Sacred relic, hmm?" It's a reasonable explanation, and although she's an excellent liar, he has a sense that she's telling the truth here. Although he does wonder if it's the whole truth. Is the dagger's power related somehow to the power of her gods? Of course Dastan doesn't believe in her gods—he barely believes in his own—but then, two days ago he would have said he didn't believe in a dagger that could turn back time, and yet here they are.

"So I suppose you were trying to smuggle your relics out of the city when I got this dagger," he muses, then grins. "You must have been pretty upset when I showed up in your throne room with it," he says, then looks up to see her giving him a glare that could melt through rock.

"Yes, come to think of it, I rather think I was," she says flatly.

He can't help the smirk that twists his mouth. "And I imagine the other priestesses weren't too pleased with you either."

"Oof!" she exclaims, somewhere between a grumble and a squeal, and turns away from him, her arms crossed across her chest. "Yes, I failed at one of my most sacred duties as high priestess," she says. "Thank you so much for bringing it up."

He thinks on all this as they prepare for sleep; he thinks on how incredibly useful such a dagger would be, but also on how dangerous it would be if word got out that a person had it—the result would surely be an endless string of would-be thieves and murderers coming after it, and the owner would have to constantly be on their guard. And then he thinks on how completely he and his brothers have botched things lately, how they have folded Alamut into their empire but at the same time ruined their diplomatic relations with that city by earning the ire of its princess and high-ranking leaders. And he thinks about his relationship with Tamina; he still intends on seeking out an annulment when they get back to Alamut, but it's important that the Persian and Alamutian crowns stay on good terms.

And . . .

And at least for this moment, she's his wife, and he's the prince of Alamut, by marriage. He's surprised to find that he wants to do the right thing by her and by her city—by _their_ city.

"Tamina?" he says, and she looks sleepily over at him. "I'm going to hold onto the dagger until I've proved my innocence; if I manage to find more sand for it, it might be very helpful in convincing my family of Tus's guilt. But once that's done . . . I'll give it back to you."

More alert now, she narrows her eyes at him. "Easy as that?" she says suspiciously.

"Easy as that," he agrees. "Consider it a gesture of goodwill, from Persia to Alamut."

She considers him a long moment, then says, "Sometimes I don't know what to make of you, Prince Dastan."

"Just Dastan," he reminds her with a grin, and falls asleep with the feeling that a burden has been lifted from his conscience.

o.o.o


	7. Chapter 7

o.o.o

They wake with the sun and continue the journey to Lambsar on foot for a while; the terrain is getting more rocky and uneven underfoot, and Dastan doesn't want the horse, slightly off-balance from carrying two riders, to lose its footing and fall.

As he walks, he goes over and over the coming confrontation in his mind. He will talk to Tus and Garsiv at the same time; Tus could try to kill him to keep his silence, but he's less likely to do so with a witness. (He blinks away the hollowness in his chest at the thought of Tus doing such a thing; he needs to be focused now, not maudlin.) It's vital that he get Garsiv on his side, and he wishes that he had more of that magical sand, so he could prove to his brother what the dagger does; he knows Garsiv would understand quickly how the crown prince could have turned against his family with the temptation of such power before him. But according to Tamina, there's no more sand, which is kind of odd, come to think of it—

Dastan nearly stops dead as realization hits him. He'd believed her about the sand before, when he'd thought the dagger was a magical object of unknown origin she wanted to get her hands on. But now, knowing that it's a sacred relic of Alamut, he has to wonder: how likely is it, really, that she can't get her hands on more sand? In fact . . .

He glances over at her. In the gentle light of the early morning, she's loosened some of the layers that cover up her skin, and he can see the chain that she always wears around her neck, disappearing under her neckline. If he cranes his head a little . . . yes, he's sure of it, hanging on the chain is some kind of vial, identical in design to the hilt of the dagger. And he'd be willing to bet quite a lot on what's inside it.

Unfortunately, that's the moment that Tamina turns to look at him, catching him essentially looking down the front of her dress. Her eyes spark with anger. "Did you see what you were looking for?" she asks sarcastically.

Heat rushes to his face, and he turns his attention back to their journey.

It's not quite midday when they spy Lambsar in the distance, an imposing pile of stone clinging to a cliffside partway up a valley. The tents and horses of the Persian cavalry surround it, and Persian banners fly from the fort: clearly the Persians have already driven out Kosh's forces.

They draw as close as they can without alerting the guards, and Dastan can just barely see two figures in front of the royal tent in the center of the camp—his brothers, he hopes. After long internal debate, he has decided to sneak into the camp, rather than announce his presence, just in case word of the assassination attempt has reached their ears. And the last thing he needs is an untrained princess attempting to sneak alongside him.

"All right," he says, guiding the horse into a side ravine, "wait for me here. I'll fetch you as soon as it's safe."

"You'd leave me here alone?" she shoots back, but there's little heat in it; perhaps she fears the danger of walking into a camp that might consider Dastan a traitor.

"You'll be fine," he says, looping the horse's reins around a tree branch. "I'll come for you when it's safe."

He pulls the knife from the saddlebag and tucks it through his belt, and she snorts. "You think that will keep you safe against a whole camp of Persian soldiers?"

"Must everything turn into a fight with you?" he demands, irritated. But in truth he's glad she's being argumentative. She's not going to like what he's about to do, and it'll be easier to do it when they're bickering, rather than during those stretches where they're civil to each other. He might actually feel a bit guilty, if he does it then. "And by the way, princess," he smirks, "I did see what I was looking for."

And before she can catch onto his meaning, he reaches out and pulls hard on her necklace, breaking the chain and pulling the vial free from her clothing.

"Dastan!" she hisses. "You can't show Garsiv the power of the dagger! Our greatest ally in keeping it safe is ignorance. If your brother knows Alamut has such a relic, he may stop at nothing to get it, and neither the dagger nor my city will be safe."

"Not my problem," he says.

"It will be your problem if he turns on you to get at it, as Tus did," she says through gritted teeth.

She swipes to grab the vial back, but his superior height makes it easy to keep it out of her reach. Unfortunately, lifting his arm like that leaves his abdomen wide open, and she drives her elbow into his stomach, and he barely manages to keep the vial away from her as he doubles over in pain.

"Keep that up and I'll tie you to the tree as well, I swear it," he says, backing up.

She clearly knows she can't best him in a fair fight, so all she does is stand and watch with a glum expression on her face while he refills the dagger's hilt with the sand from the vial. "If I can convince him without showing him the dagger, I will," he promises, tossing the vial and the broken chain back to her. "But that might be too little, too late, as far as secrecy goes. Tus clearly already knows. And that tells me you have a leak somewhere; if Tus knows, who knows how many other people do as well?"

Her face falls even further, and he shrugs. "I think it's time to take a long hard look at the rest of your priesthood," he says, tucking the dagger into his belt, behind his back. He goes to pull his outer coat down over it, but it gets caught on the hilt and he struggles to get it free, as it's behind him and he can't see it.

"Oh, here, let me," she says, sounding annoyed, and comes over to move the back of the coat into place. Her hands suddenly slide down his shoulder blades, smoothing out wrinkles in the coat; he hopes she doesn't notice the way he freezes when she does that.

"I'll be back for you," he promises, turning around to look at her.

She stands with her hands behind her back, looking resigned. "I'll be here."

o.o.o

With his familiarity with Persian camps, and his lifetime spent employing stealth and cunning, it's almost embarrassingly easy to get to the royal tent; Tus and Garsiv are lucky that he hasn't actually turned on them, or they'd already be dead. At the back wall of the tent, he takes a moment to glance around, ensuring that no one has seen him, and as he does he notices something that catches his eye: away to the south there is, as he saw yesterday, a row of three sand dervishes in nearly a perfect line, moving toward them. This is an odd stretch of desert, he decides. He ducks under the tent wall and, finding the place empty, sits on one of the cots, waiting for his brothers to return.

He doesn't have to wait long before two very familiar figures enter the tent. Immediately both his brothers instinctively reach for their swords, then relax and grin as they recognize him. "Dastan!" chuckles Tus. "What in the world are you doing here?"

Garsiv rolls his eyes, but there's a smirk on his face. "Not wise to startle two soldiers so recently off the battlefield," he says. "I might have killed you, had the lights been a little lower." Clearly Garsiv hasn't heard about the attempt on Sharaman's life.

"You'd have had to catch me first," Dastan says lightly, standing from the cot, but he's warily eyeing Tus. Clearly the crown prince has more skill in deception than Dastan had realized, seeing as how no one ever suspected his true nature and intentions, but still, he'd supposed that he would have seen some hint of the truth in his brother's eyes. Tus must have assumed Dastan was locked up or dead at this moment, but he is hiding his confusion about that admirably; all Dastan can see on his face is surprise and pleasure at seeing his brother.

"Why are you here?" Tus asks again. "You're only three days married. Has the princess already proven to be too much for you to handle?"

Garsiv grins, and Dastan can just hear the lewd remark that he's about to make. So he interrupts before the conversation can be completely derailed. "Actually, something happened," he says, his eyes fixed on Tus, waiting for his brother to give himself away. "A terrible attack at the wedding feast, after you'd left."

Immediately all laughter leaves the two princes, and they both step forward, their hands on their swords: the very picture of noble protectors of Persia.

"What happened?" Garsiv asks.

"What of our father?" Tus demands.

"You really are good at this," Dastan admits reluctantly, his hand going to the knife at his side. "I'd believe you were distraught, if I didn't know any better."

"Dastan, what are you talking about?" Garsiv demands, exasperation lacing his voice. "What happened?"

His hand tightens on the hilt of the knife. "Ask Tus."

Garsiv turns a baffled look on his older brother, who looks equally confused. "What does he mean?"

"I have no idea," Tus says. "Dastan, explain yourself."

"Gladly," he says. And though he keeps his eyes on Tus, his words are addressed to Garsiv. "Tus here attempted to assassinate Father, and frame me for it."

Tus's eyes widen.

"What?" Garsiv demands, his hand on his sword, his gaze darting back and forth between his two brothers.

"Is he all right?" Tus asks, and Dastan has to admit, it's an awfully good way to keep suspicion off him, to act more worried about Father's safety than about the accusation.

"Yes, no thanks to you."

Tus's expression is a painful mix of relief and denial and sorrow. "Dastan, how can you possibly—I would never—"

"That's what I would have said three days ago," Dastan says evenly. "But apparently I don't know you at all. You would have let me hang for your crime."

"Explain yourself," Garsiv growls. "Either one of you."

Tus's tone is pleading as he turns toward Garsiv. "I have no idea what he's talking about."

"Then let me refresh your memory," says Dastan. "Do you remember that robe you gave me, as a present for Father?"

"A prayer robe, correct?" Tus looks glad to have something sane to hold onto. "You told me Father didn't like it."

"He didn't," says Dastan. "So at the wedding feast, he decided to return it to the original owner. And when the old man put it on, it nearly killed him." He looks at Garsiv, desperate for his brother to believe the truth. "It was poisoned. Nearly burned his skin right off. He may have died of his injuries since then; he didn't look too good when I saw him." He looks back at Tus, who looks dumbfounded. "If Father had put it on instead, as was your intention in my giving it to him, he could be dead."

Garsiv's face is a thundercloud as he pulls his sword a few inches from its scabbard. "Is this true, Tus?"

"No!" exclaims Tus, looking frantically back and forth between his two brothers. Dastan is surprised he hasn't gone for his weapon yet; he or Garsiv would probably have already decided to fight their way out of the situation, but then Tus always did prefer to use his words over his sword. "I swear, I never even opened the box to look at it! Uncle told me not to—" And suddenly his expression changes.

"What?" demands Dastan.

Tus hesitates. "Uncle told me not to open the box and especially not to touch the robe, because he said it was delicate, and would be damaged by the sunlight or rough handling."

"Uncle?" Dastan repeats.

Tus nods slowly. "The robe was given to me by our uncle Nizam," he says quietly, something stunned and unbelieving in his expression. "He recommended that I give it to you to give to Father, because he was sure you'd have forgotten to get anything."

Dastan stares, then shakes his head. "You expect me to believe that?" he demands.

"It's the truth!" Tus insists.

"Nizam adores our father!" Dastan counters. "And he adores us. He wouldn't do this." But even as he says it, his mind is whirring, trying to fit Nizam into the puzzle of the last few days and seeing if it makes any sense. He has no proof that Nizam gave Tus the robe. But he does suddenly remember that the invasion that started it all—the invasion of Alamut designed to get close to the sacred dagger—was triggered when Nizam brought to them the chest of Alamutian weapons on its way to Kosh. He remembers that while he tried to convince Tus not to invade, Nizam was on the crown prince's other side, subtly persuading him, warning him that "words will not stop our enemies, once they're armed with Alamutian blades."

And he remembers something else, too. "When the old man was so badly burned," he says slowly, glancing back and forth between his brothers, "the woman who pulled the robe off him—her hands got burned. And I noticed, Uncle's hands were burned too. I thought that he'd just helped pull it off the old man, but he was nowhere near him by the time I got there. Maybe . . . maybe he'd handled the robe before." He hesitates. "Come to think of it, I noticed his hands were hurt the day before the wedding." It's a mad notion, their beloved uncle trying to kill his own brother. But then, five minutes ago he'd believed his beloved brother had tried to kill his own father. If he believed that, is it not also possible to believe that Nizam had done this? Can he believe his uncle guilty of the same wickedness he accused his brother of?

It also occurs to him that the seized Alamutian weapons that triggered the invasion have to have been forgeries. But this isn't the first time the possibility of them being forgeries has been brought up: Tus worried that they might be just that, the day before the wedding, when he worried so much that they would never find proof of Alamut's treachery. If he'd ordered that forgeries be created, why would he bring it up? Why place the thought in Dastan's mind, potentially ruining the deception he'd worked so hard to plan?

And it hasn't escaped his notice that not once has Tus tried to claim that Dastan is pinning the blame on him to distract them from the fact that he himself was accused of the murder attempt.

Tus and Dastan's eyes meet.

"This is madness!" Garsiv insists. "Our uncle would never do such a thing."

"But someone did," Dastan says quietly, his hand falling from the knife's hilt. Despite himself, he's starting to believe Tus. "We've misjudged someone very close to us. The question is, who is it?"

He looks a long moment at Garsiv, whose face suddenly fills with something dark. "I've just remembered," he says. "At the feast, when you gave Father the robe and he didn't take it from the box, you didn't insist. But . . . Nizam did. He tried to convince Father to put it on."

Dastan frowns. "You're right," he said softly. "I'd forgotten."

"And it'd be a clever plan," Garsiv points out. "Best case scenario, you die for the murder of our father, and no one is any the wiser. But if you manage to convince everyone that Tus gave you the robe, then Tus dies for the murder. Uncle is two steps removed from the assassination."

Tus's expression turns pained, probably at the thought that their uncle could be so callous and cruel.

"But if it were Uncle," says Garsiv, "what is his plan? He'd have to kill Tus and me and Tus's sons before he took the throne."

Garsiv has a point. And suddenly Dastan remembers the dagger tucked in his belt. Would that be temptation enough to enact such a treacherous plan? He slowly reaches behind himself, wondering if it will make matters better or worse to reveal the dagger—and his hand touches only his own shirt. Fighting to keep panic off his face, he feels around for a few moments before admitting the truth to himself: the dagger is gone. "Tamina," he hisses under his breath. Curse her and her deft hands; she must have taken it when she helped him adjust his coat.

"What?" Tus asks.

"Nothing," says Dastan. "Only that marriage so far has been more trouble than it's worth." How will he convince them now? And who should he believe: Tus or his own experience?

But just then, a cry goes up from around the camp: they are under attack. "South border!" they hear a guard yell, and the brothers exchange a look and rush outside the tent. Dastan wants to help, but he's not sure what to do about Tus; what if his brother is guilty, and he takes advantage of the general commotion to sneak away? Should he tail his brother as they defend the camp?

But before he can fret too much about it, they see something that drives all other thought from his mind. Just outside the door of the tent stands a soldier. As the princes appear, the man glances at them, and in that moment several somethings whistle through the air and embed themselves in the man's chest with deadly force and accuracy. He makes a gurgling sound—blood drips from his lips—and he collapses to the ground, already dead. Three identical stares of shock whip around toward the direction the darts came from and see something that makes Dastan's blood run cold: a man in a dark, hooded robe, armor just visible underneath, who's standing so far from his victim that it's impossible to believe that he just made that throw so accurately. No normal man can throw like that.

Dastan's heard enough stories to guess what the man is, and from Tus's quick intake of breath, he supposes he's not the only one. They duck out of the man's line of sight and stare at each other.

"Hassansins," breathes Tus.

"I thought Uncle said he personally had them . . ." Garsiv trails off, and a dark look crosses his face. "Oh."

Dastan glances at Tus, and he knows they're thinking the same thing: maybe this proof that they aren't each other's enemies after all.

"Well," says Garsiv, "what are you waiting for?" With a wild cry he draws his sword and rushes into the battle, Tus following after with a final worried look back at Dastan. Tus has never enjoyed battle, the way Garsiv does; he tolerates it, because it's expected and required, but he takes no pleasure in it. Dastan normally agrees more with Garsiv on this matter, but something about this battle has him apprehensive. Probably the terrible stories he's heard of Hassansins over the years, of how their strange practices and faith give them abilities far beyond those of mortal men.

He darts out to grab the sword from the fallen soldier, takes a deep breath, and throws himself into the fray.

They are fortunate in that only three Hassansins have attacked the camp, and one has already been struck down by Garsiv's talented cavalry. The others have their hands full with soldiers in the camp and archers on the fort walls; Dastan fancies, from the way they're acting, that they weren't expecting quite so much resistance. Perhaps they did not realize that the camp and fort would be full of Persia's finest.

Tus goes after the one on the other side of camp, but Dastan decides to engage the one with the throwing darts—he seems to be the most dangerous. Garsiv clearly has had the same thought, because he too is sneaking toward the man, staying out of sight behind various tents. Fortunately for them, the Hassansin is distracted trying to take out the archers up on the fort walls, and doesn't notice their approach. When the two brothers are both about twenty feet away from the man, Dastan catches his brother's eye and makes a few quick gestures. Garsiv nods his understanding and slips even further into the shadows.

Throwing knives have never really been Dastan's specialty, but he knows enough to be a little bit dangerous. So he scoops up a few he's spied scattered on the ground—taking a moment to mourn those fallen soldiers whose weapons those were—then, taking a breath to center himself, dodges into sight just long enough to throw one at the Hassansin.

His aim isn't perfect—it's headed for the man's leg—but it doesn't matter because with nearly superhuman instinct, the Hassansin somehow senses the knife coming and neatly dodges it. But Dastan has managed the most important objective of that move: the Hassansin's attention is now on him.

With the next knife held carefully in his hand, Dastan peeks over the edge of the large crate he's hiding behind, and only just manages to duck before a volley of darts whizzes through the air; they tear through the spot where his head just was and embed themselves in the cart behind. In the instant after they hit he's up and throwing his knife; again, the Hassansin easily dodges, but hitting him was never the point.

And there's the point now: from the direction of the Hassansin, he hears the all-too-familiar dull thud of a weapon striking flesh, and Garsiv's simultaneous grunt of effort. Dastan peeks over the edge of the crate in time to see the Hassansin toppling to the ground, and Garsiv standing victoriously over the body. "What would you do without me as a distraction?" Dastan yells, exhilarated with the thrill of battle.

"I seem to do all right on my own," Garsiv calls back, and though his helmet covers much of his face, Dastan can almost hear him rolling his eyes. 

Dastan stands, then starts as he sees blood streaming down his brother's arm. "Are you hit?" he asks, moving toward him.

"Never mind!" says Garsiv. "What about—"

But in that moment a rushing of wind distracts them, and they glance over to see a sand dervish forming over the part of camp where Tus and the soldiers were fighting the other Hassansin. The dervish moves quickly out of the camp and speeds out of the valley. The brothers exchange baffled looks, and then Dastan goes to check the Hassansin for a pulse, ensuring that he is in fact dead. Seeing the man's armor up close confirms his identity; Dastan has seen paintings of Hassansins before, and this is a perfect match.

"My cavalry seems to have taken that one down," Garsiv says, pointing across the way to another body.

"And the third?" Dastan asks.

"Vanished," comes Tus's voice, moments before the prince comes into view, looking sweaty and tired and bleeding from a cut over his eye. "You're not going to believe this, but I think he somehow left in that sand dervish."

Dastan thinks of the things he's seen in the last few days, and laughs. "Right now I'm ready to believe anything."

Tus looks at him with uncertainty marring his brow. "And what do you believe concerning me?" he asks quietly.

Dastan runs a filthy hand through his hair with a shaky laugh. "Uncle told us he got rid of the Hassansins—even burned all their manuscripts, so no one else could learn their methods."

"If those were them," Garsiv says tightly, "then he lied. And why would he keep a secret killing squad under his control, if he really was the mild-mannered royal adviser he pretended to be?"

"Those are the actions of a man without honorable intentions." Dastan sighs, and looks over at Tus. The crown prince has learned well over the years to hide his emotions, but he's never quite been able to fool his brothers. "That robe was given to you by our uncle?" he asks, looking for confirmation.

Sadness and anger fill Tus's expression. "It was."

Dastan thinks of Nizam encouraging the attack on Alamut, encouraging Sharaman to put on the poisoned robe, calling for Dastan's blood so quickly, burning his hands on what must have been the poisoned cloak. And he thinks of Tus, who accepted his adopted brother months before Garsiv ever did, who used to sneak him sweets when he was confined to his room as punishment for some childhood prank, who spent hours in the palace library helping him practice his reading and writing. He knows Tus, possibly better than he knows anyone, even Garsiv. And his brother is not a murderer. Suddenly he can't believe that he thought, even for a moment, that Tus could do such a thing.

He takes a deep breath, then nods at Tus. "I believe you."

Tus closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, Dastan sees the sheen of unshed tears. In retrospect, it doesn't surprise him that Tus would react so strongly to such accusations and mistrust from his own family; Tus has always taken so very much to heart Father's favorite phrase. And thinking of it, he finds himself reaching out and clasping Tus's shoulder.

"The bond between brothers is the sword that defends our empire," he recites softly, and Tus gives him a shaky smile. Garsiv dutifully puts a hand on Tus's other shoulder, rolling his eyes but smiling a little.

"I believe you too," he says quietly. "But that means that it's our uncle who's concocted this plot. He must be stopped."

"We must return to Alamut," Dastan says.

"Right away," Garsiv agrees. "I'll leave part of my cavalry here and put Gaumata in charge. The rest of us ride for Alamut as soon as we can prepare our horses."

"And as soon as you have that arm seen to," Tus says gently, and Garsiv glances down, clearly having forgotten that one of the Hassansin's darts grazed his arm. He scowls in annoyance at the delay. And that's when Dastan finally remembers:

"Tamina!"

"What about her?" Garsiv asks.

Dastan winces. "She's here. Long story."

His brothers give him baffled looks—both would do nearly anything to avoid having to take their wives out into the desert—but he's almost too lost in his thoughts to notice. If she got the dagger off him when she was helping him with his coat, she's got quite a large head start on him, for surely she's making a run for it. Back to Alamut? That seems foolhardy, because she must know she'll just run into the Persians, and him, back in her city. But he can't imagine anywhere else she would go.

And then his heart drops into his stomach. If she's heading back to Alamut, and that Hassansin is heading back to Alamut to report to Nizam . . .

Without further thought he turns to his brothers. "I need a horse," he says without preamble. "I left Tamina to wait for me back that way—" he points— "and now with that Hassansin on the loose . . ."

His brothers understand instantly, and a horse is quickly procured for him and equipped with saddle, water, and gear for desert travel. "If you take the main route back to Alamut," he says tersely as he mounts, "I should be able to find you again. Start your journey as soon as you're prepared; I'll go get Tamina and come to meet you. But if something happens and I don't get to you before you reach Alamut, you must go to Father and warn him."

His brothers agree, but there's amusement in Garsiv's eyes. "Such concern," he chuckles. "She's got you wrapped around her finger, has she?"

Dastan rolls his eyes. "It's complicated," he says.

But Tus's mind is more disagreeably occupied. "Are you sure you should go alone?" he says. "With Hassansins on the loose?"

"Getting to Father is the most important thing. Even if I don't manage to meet you on the way, promise me you'll get to Alamut and warn him before you come looking for me."

They nod, and he bids his brothers farewell and urges the horse quickly away from the camp. This horse is far finer, and trained much more for moving quickly in difficult terrain, than the one they've had the last few days; he reaches the side ravine where he left Tamina in only a minute or two. He stops to examine the tracks and finds that they're not going where he expected.

If she'd been returning to Alamut, she would have exited through the main channel of the valley. But these tracks don't do that; they continue down this side ravine, going east, for some inexplicable reason. He stares, then he sighs and shakes his head. Whatever her reasons for going this direction, he'll have to follow her. She's wandering the desert, alone and unprotected and carrying a magical dagger that many men would kill to possess, and she has no idea how to survive or travel in this environment. Not to mention, there's a Hassansin out there, and chances are he's been sent by Nizam to find that dagger. Tamina is in very real danger.

And for reasons he chooses not to examine too closely, his grip on the reins is tight and tense as he kicks the horse into a run.

o.o.o


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little earlier than usual today, thanks to the holiday. Speaking of, happy Fourth of July to all you Americans, and to all you non-Americans, happy fourth of July, though for you it's not a holiday, just another Tuesday.

o.o.o

The going is slower than he'd like. The ravine he's in follows the path of a dry creek bed, and it twists and turns frequently, making a full gallop difficult. Not to mention, the ground is very uneven, and he really can't afford to have this horse twist an ankle. So for nearly an hour he's forced to move at a painfully slow pace, with only his useless questions and cyclical pondering about his uncle for company, until the ravine finally opens out onto smooth ground, building in mounds and hills into the distance. Finally he can give the horse its head; this is a Persian war horse, specially conditioned for running in deep sand, and it takes off like the wind.

From the tracks, it appears Tamina is heading east-southeast on horseback, and she's moving quickly; the horse is certainly doing far better with only her on its back than it was with the two of them together. As he rides on and still doesn't overtake her, despite his superior mount, he starts to worry that the princess, with her limited experience with horses, is pushing hers too hard. At least her solitary tracks give him hope that no Hassansins have found her as yet.

It's mid-afternoon before he sees her, and when he finally does he's nearly on top of her; she's stopped to rest in a depression in the sand, making it difficult to see her from a distance. He slides off his horse and closes the distance on foot, trying not to spook her before he can get close. He was right about the horse, he sees: it's standing near her, sides heaving with exhaustion and foamy with sweat. She must have stopped to give it a rest.

She herself is lying on the bedroll, asleep or just resting, and holding the dagger in one hand. That hand is only loosely gripping it, however, and it's easy as anything to slip silently into the makeshift camp, take the dagger from her, and dodge out of her reach before she's awoken enough to react.

"I hope your defenses for this dagger are better in Alamut than they are here," he says as she sits up and glares at him. "At least you should be sleeping with it underneath you, so a thief has to wake you to get at it."

"Dastan," she greets him resignedly. "I suppose it was too much to hope that I'd actually given you the slip."

He snorts. "With the trail you left, you might as well have drawn me a map to where you were going."

"I had rather hoped to outrun you," she says haughtily, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her clothes in a dignified manner that is entirely at odds with the fact that she's sitting in the sand in used merchants' clothing. But there's wariness in her expression; he supposes she's wondering whether he's going to be angry at her for taking the dagger and leaving. Come to think of it, he's wondering it as well. Because now that the relief of seeing her alive—yes, he admits it, he was relieved—has faded, along with the adrenaline of trying to catch her before that Hassansin did, he's starting to feel a little upset about his whole situation. But it's not anger, precisely, it's . . . well, to be honest, he feels a little betrayed.

And he can't stop that from seeping into his voice. "I'd been hoping we were past this, Tamina," he says. "This thing where you steal the dagger and run away every time I turn my back."

She bristles as she climbs to her feet. "I'm not stealing the dagger if I'm its rightful guardian to begin with," she informs him frostily. "If anything, you've stolen it from me. You're just angry that you had to ride this far to steal it back."

"I'm not here to steal it back!"

"I'd believe you more if you hadn't just snatched it from me while I slept," she snaps. "And if that's true, then why _are_ you here?"

That frustrating, cocky, self-assured— "To make sure you're safe!" he all but shouts, and she blinks in surprise. So does he, after he's realized what he just said. He supposes that was always the reason, he just didn't expect to admit it aloud.

After a moment, her confidence returns. "I am perfectly capable of travelling by myself—"

"No, you're not," he says, suddenly tired. "Not through the desert, anyway. And that's not an insult, it's just a fact that you've never received the training necessary. I can't play a musical instrument because I never learned; you can't survive in the desert because you never learned. And more importantly—" He says that last bit louder, to drown out the objection she's starting to voice— "There is a Hassansin out here somewhere, maybe more than one, who I think might be trying to get the dagger. And if they find you with it, you'll be dead before you know you're under attack."

Based on the way her expression darkens, he supposes she knows what a Hassansin is. "If Hassansins have gotten involved, that just leaves me all the more assured that I did the right thing, taking the dagger out of play," she snaps. "As is my right and obligation as its guardian. You may want this dagger to prove your innocence, but protecting it is my sacred duty. It's my destiny." Then she regards him a long moment, and he can see the moment she decides to take a different tack with him. "It was kind of you to offer to give the dagger back after you'd showed it to your brother," she says quietly, and he thinks she might even mean it sincerely. "But if you had, then all three Persian princes would know about it, and possibly your father too, if you used it to explain the assassination attempt. And that is too much temptation to lay before kings and princes and generals, who can command armies to get what they want. Even if they chose to do nothing about it now, imagine the promise of all that power preying on their minds for the rest of their lives. Eventually someone would give in to the temptation. As Prince Tus did."

The events of today come rushing back to him, and he feels a weight settling on his shoulders. "It wasn't Tus," he says, sitting heavily on the ground. "It was my uncle."

Her brow furrows. "Your uncle?"

He finds himself telling her everything, from Tus's genuine confusion to the Hassansin attack that convinced all of the brothers that Nizam was to blame. For reasons he can't put his finger on, he thinks about telling her how much it hurt to realize that his uncle, who he looked up to almost as a second father, had betrayed them all and would have let Dastan die for Sharaman's assassination. He says nothing, in the end, but the look on her face tells him she knows anyway.

To distract her (and to distract himself from that knowing look), he adds, "You'll be pleased to hear that I didn't say a word about the dagger to my brothers."

She blinks. "I am pleased to hear it," she says, her voice carefully level, and he wonders what she's thinking.

"And I thought that to thank me, you could give me some answers."

Instantly her guard is up again, the quiet moment between them shattered. "Answers about what?" she asks warily.

He gestures with the dagger. "This. I've gone over and over everything in my mind on the ride here. What good does turning back a few moments of time do my uncle? None. He must have had something more in mind when he set this whole plan into motion. What aren't you telling me?"

It's like a wall has gone up behind her eyes in the last few moments; he's coming to recognize that when it comes to matters related to her faith, Tamina is as unyielding as a mountain, and he knows he's not going to force any explanations from her. So he tries honesty. "I know how important this is to you, and how sacred. But whether you like it or not, I'm involved now, and I can help if you'll let me. We want the same thing, after all: to keep this out of my uncle's hands. But I can't help if you hide information from me."

The wall behind her eyes softens, just a little, and for a moment he triumphs. But in that moment his ears catch a familiar rushing sound, and Tamina focuses suddenly on something behind him, fear entering her expression. A sandstorm, clearly, although he's never seen one appear so suddenly.

"Can we get out of here?" she says, and he's surprised to see tears glittering in her eyes. She's probably never been trapped outside in a sandstorm before, and it amazes him, not for the first time, how little she has been out in the world.

But then he glances behind himself and sees a wall of dust taller than he's ever seen. Okay, maybe she has reason to be a little afraid. Still, he can't help teasing her, even as he reaches in her horse's saddlebag for the tent. "Only a princess would think she could outrun a sandstorm."

Even having to do the work of two people, it takes him little time to get the two tents set up—his horse was equipped with one as well, which is lucky, as it'd be a difficult thing to fit himself, Tamina, and the two horses' heads in a single tent. The sandstorm is moving fast, though, and the wall of swirling sand is less than fifty feet away as he's getting his horse settled; luckily it's been trained for this sort of thing and lays quietly, its head and neck covered by the tent.

He'd been planning on each of them ducking into their own tents—more comfortable and roomy that way—until he glances over and sees Tamina standing at her tent, staring over at him, trying and failing to mask the fear in her eyes. After a moment's hesitation, he jogs over to join her, figuring that his horse is well-trained enough and smart enough to stay put until the storm is over. The warm spark of relief and happiness that brightens her expression does something funny to his chest. He has to admit, he actually rather likes how independent and self-sufficient Tamina is—it's what he would have wanted in a wife, if he'd chosen for himself—but it's still somewhat pleasant to feel needed every now and then.

He catches hold of her wrist and pulls her down into the tent after him, then fastens the opening tightly. It's bright enough out that there's a fair bit of light filtering through the cloth, and they sit in silence for a few moments, listening to the sand pelting the sides of the tent. It feels more intimate than anything else they've done—maybe because they're in such a small space together, made even smaller by the horse behind them—and for a while he's strangely content to just sit there quietly, occasionally stealing glances over to where she sits, outlined in an orange glow. She seems calmer now, and he flatters himself that it's his presence that's helping her, and then wonders why he even cares.

But this is no time to get so distracted; he still needs answers. "Nizam is coming to kill us," he reminds her quietly, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the roar of the wind and the flapping of the tent walls. "He needs me dead. I need to know why."

For a moment he thinks she won't answer, and then she turns to look at him, her expression calm and resigned. There's actually something approaching a smile on her lips, and he wonders what's caused it. Maybe she's amused at his persistence. Maybe she's just decided how she's going to kill him. Or maybe she too feels a certain closeness here in this tent, and maybe she's realized he was sincere when he told her they're in this together. Perhaps it's the last one, because suddenly she speaks, as though she's just made up her mind to do so and wants to act before she changes her mind.

"In Alamut rests the beating heart of all life on earth," she says, as though she's reciting a story she's heard many times before. "The Sand Glass of the Gods." Then, glancing back and forth as though uncomfortable meeting his eyes, but speaking with the quiet confidence of someone who knows what's she's saying is true, she spins a tale for him of a little girl who saved humanity when the gods would have swept them off the earth with a massive sandstorm. Moved by the girl's plea and her goodness, the gods relented. "And they swept the sand into the Sand Glass," she finishes quietly.

He's never heard her speak like this, so eloquent and fervent, which he supposes is because he's never bothered to ask her about her beliefs, or anything particularly important to her. It transfixes him, and he rather thinks he could listen to her talk like this forever. Behind them the horse whinnies quietly, and both human occupants of the tent automatically reach back to rub his neck. Their hands bump, and something flashes up Dastan's arm like lightning on a summer afternoon—a prickle of awareness and heat. Part of him wants to snatch his hand away. A larger part doesn't, though, and before he's consciously decided to move, he finds himself covering her hand with this own.

She glances up at him, but it takes him a moment to bring himself to meet her eye. This is . . . nice. All of it—this quiet moment, and the intimacy of the tent, and them talking to each other without the shouting or the restraint that's characterized so many of their interactions, and the feeling of her skin against his. He's embarrassed at how much he enjoys the contact, and embarrassed to think of how little experience he has courting a woman. He's had his flirtations before, but nothing at all serious or long-lasting; his duties to the crown and the army have always kept him too busy for anything long-term.

When he finally does manage to meet her eye, he almost looks away again in discomfort; she's watching him very closely, and he can't read her expression. It's not negative, though; in fact, he'd almost be willing to say that she's enjoying the contact, too.

And what in the world is he supposed to think about that?

Fortunately she takes up the story again without comment, pulling her hand away from his to clasp her hands in front of herself. "The dagger was given to the girl who saved man, making her the first guardian," she says, as Dastan holds the dagger in front of him, examining it, pondering her incredible claim that it's a gift straight from her gods. "The dagger blade is the only thing that can pierce the Sand Glass and remove the Sands of Time, but the handle only holds one minute."

He thinks this through. "What if one were to place the dagger in the Sand Glass, and press the jewel button at the same time?"

"Sand would flow through endlessly."

"You could turn back time as far as you like," he realizes.

"Yes, but it is forbidden," she says firmly, and he's surprised to see the emotion in her eyes—the sheen of tears is back. This admonition from the gods, forbidding such an action: she believes in it, wholeheartedly, and fears the consequences.

But if one didn't know about or believe in the consequences . . . why would Nizam want to turn back time so far?

And then the answer comes to him. "When my father was a boy," he says quietly, "Nizam saved his life hunting. One day the two princes were stalking a beautiful buck, but they weren't aware of a lion stalking them. Nizam saved Sharaman. My father told us the story over and over again."

She shakes her head. "I don't understand."

"Nizam wishes to go back in time and undo what he did," Dastan says, looking up at her. It occurs to him that he's wondered in the past what she's like when she's sincere, and he's had nothing but that in the last few minutes. He rather likes how seriously she's listening, how seriously she's talking. This is the first time they've managed to communicate well. "Not save my father," he clarifies. "Let him die. Then he will be king for a lifetime, and my brothers would never be born." His chest constricts at the thought, and the understanding look Tamina's giving him somehow makes it worse and better at the same time. Luckily, the sudden decrease in noise offers a distraction. "The storm's passed."

Together they exit the tent into a world suddenly silent and serene, the sand around them swept smooth as marble. Dastan supposes that he should be grateful for the storm, as it will have covered up their tracks.

But Tamina clearly sees something more significant when she looks at the endless, smooth hills of sand around them; her face is troubled, and when she quietly speaks, he suddenly feels that she's speaking as high priestess, something more high and solemn than he could ever manage. "Dastan, the Sands contained within the Sand Glass are incredibly powerful. Opening the dagger while it's inside the glass breaks the seal and destroys the Sand Glass, causing it to crack and shatter. The Sands of Time would no longer be contained, and they would carry the gods' wrath with them once more, destroying everything in their path. And all of mankind would pay for Nizam's treachery." She looks around at the endless expanse of sand around them. "This is all that would be left of us."

Dastan examines her a long moment, considering. He doesn't believe in her gods, and he wouldn't believe in her magical dagger if he hadn't seen it in action. But the fact remains, he has seen it in action, twice now. He knows from his own experience that the dagger turns back time, and he can't explain where that ability came from. Add to that the fact that he is fairly certain the Hassansins somehow travel via sand dervish, and he's more willing that usual to admit that there might be powers at work in this world that he doesn't understand.

Not to mention, the force of Tamina's belief is strangely compelling.

"So what now?" he asks.

She glances at him.

"My uncle is in Alamut right now, no doubt looking for the Sand Glass—the soldiers searching for the forges!" he realizes suddenly. "That's what they're really looking for." He frowns. "My uncle has thought of everything," he admits reluctantly. "So you can't bring the dagger back to Alamut, but if you keep it out here, the Hassansins will find you sooner or later."

She nods. "The secret guardian temple outside Alamut is a sanctuary—the one place where the dagger can be hidden safely, the only way to stop this Armageddon. That's the truth, Dastan."

This is it. He's wanted to know what she's really like, and this is it: the very core of her being, laid bare to him. It's clear that protecting the dagger is the most important thing in her life, her most important duty—reading between the lines, it seems that Alamut was built over the Sand Glass, so even her position as princess of Alamut is in service of protecting this dagger and the Sands of Time. And she has chosen to trust him with it, a fact that he finds strangely moving.

And he . . . he chooses to believe it. Tamina is a good liar, but he's learning to sort her truths from her lies; not to mention, he's always believed in trusting his instincts, and his gut is telling him this is the most truthful she's ever been with him. He can't explain it all, but he believes her when she says that to use the dagger as Nizam intends to use it will have catastrophic results.

And he can't allow that any more than she can.

She fixes her clear gaze on him again. "Give me back the dagger, so that I can take it there."

He's shaking his head before he's even consciously decided how to respond. "I can't do that." He turns to start seeing to the two horses, but out of the corner of his eye he sees hurt flash in her eyes. He really ought to stop teasing her about this, oughtn't he? She's been through a lot lately. So he turns back with a smile. "I'm coming with you."

He can barely read all the emotions that flow over her face: disbelief and suspicion and fatigue and reluctant hope. "You're going to help me?" she says in a voice full of feeling. She looks tired and bedraggled and very young just then, and he thinks he finally understands her. If he believes her story—and he thinks he does—then the fate of the world rests on her shoulders. The gods have given her and her ancestors before her a very cruel curse: an object that can destroy the world, in a form that tempts the unscrupulous to do just that. She has spent her entire life trying to keep it a secret so that no one accidentally destroys mankind with their self-serving greed, and since such secrecy requires a very small group of guardians, she shoulders much of this burden on her own. No wonder the possibility of someone offering to help fills her with such shock and such relief.

So he grins at her. "And we can get out of here sooner if you help me with these tents."

"But what about your father? What about Nizam?"

He's worried about this too, but his gut is telling him that helping Tamina is the right choice. "Tus and Garsiv are headed to Alamut now. They know the truth about Nizam now, although they think he is just trying to assassinate everyone who stands between him and the throne. And I told them that if I didn't manage to catch up with him before they hit Alamut, they should go on without me." He puts a folded tent into his horse's saddlebag. "How far to the temple?"

She considers. "Just over a day's ride from here. And just under a day's ride from there to Alamut."

He nods and goes to check her horse's bridle. "But Dastan," she says, "how will you convince your father of your innocence without the dagger?" He wonders if she's asking to gauge whether he's going to change his mind, or if she's genuinely worried about him.

"I have my brothers on my side now," he shrugs. "We can tell our father all of Uncle's strange behavior, and about the Hassansins, and if we must we can find the spy who first brought the supposed Alamutian blades to our attention and get him to admit that our uncle paid him to claim they'd been seized from an Alamutian caravan."

She nods, still looking unconvinced, and on a sudden whim he reaches out and takes her hand in his own, squeezing it for comfort, trying to fight back the ghosts of worry and fear he still sees in her eyes. "We're going to keep the dagger safe. I promise."

She glances down at their joined hands, then back up at him. "Why?" she demands. "Why are you doing this?"

"I don't want Nizam to get his hands on it and destroy the world," he says, and then he hesitates, and then he grins. "Besides, you're my wife now," he points out, strangely gratified when her cheeks grow pink. "And maybe you only married me so you could rifle through my things and drug me on our wedding night and run away with the dagger. But that still makes me the prince of Alamut, at least for the moment, so your concerns are my concerns."

She examines him for a moment. Then finally she smiles.

A few minutes later, two figures with horses start making their way to the secret guardian temple in the mountains.

o.o.o


	9. Chapter 9

o.o.o

They move as quickly as they dare push the horses, hoping to outrun any pursuers. Dastan knows that if there are indeed Hassansins after them, they are no doubt master trackers, and he knows there's little he can do to hide their tracks to someone who really knows what he's looking for. So their best option is to stay ahead of them.

For the same reason, they push on well past nightfall—potentially dangerous, but the Hassansins are surely more so, and at least the full moon lights their path brightly—stopping only when they finally leave the open sand and find themselves on rockier ground with trees for cover. There's no water where they set up camp, but luckily Dastan's horse came equipped with full water skins (as well as a bedroll, and he is rather pleased to no longer be sleeping on a simple piece of tent fabric). 

"We'll rise early and push hard," Tamina announces as they prepare their camp for the night. "We may be able to reach the temple by nightfall."

"Do you enjoy telling me what to do?" he asks with a grin.

There's a hint of a smile on her lips as she answers. "Only because you're so good at following orders."

That same teasing and warmth seems to radiate through all their interactions that evening. "Dare I hope that you'll allow me to sleep without my hands tied?" she asks as they set out their bedrolls.

He glances over at her, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Why would I tie your hands?" he demands with mock innocence and outrage. "What a cruel thing to do to a person."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a smile on her lips.

"Anyway I think we're done with that," he says. "Now that we're . . . allies."

She glances sidelong at him, but her answer is typical Tamina. "Well, I'm glad you've come to your senses," she says, "and realized that I am extremely trustworthy."

"Hold on," he objects. "I never said that. Just that we're on the same side now."

She shakes her head, but still she's smiling.

The mood stays pleasant as they lie down to sleep. Tamina has suggested that he sleep with the dagger, as he's more able to protect it should the need arise, and the knowledge that she would willingly entrust him with it gives him a rather pleasant feeling. All told he's feeling very relaxed as he lays there, which is why he stumbles on his answer when she asks him a sudden question.

"What did you mean earlier when you said you're the prince of Alamut, at least for the moment?" she asks.

His brow furrows. "Sorry?"

"Earlier, when you volunteered to come with me," she says. "You said you were 'the prince of Alamut, at least for the moment.'" Her head drops to the side so she can look over at him. She's lit only by moonlight—he didn't dare light a fire, knowing that Hassansins might be pursuing them—but he thinks that even with the aid of the firelight, he wouldn't have been able to read the expression on her face. "What did you mean by that? What are you expecting to happen?"

He shrugs, turning his gaze back to the stars above. "I assumed that when we got back to Alamut, we'd have the marriage annulled," he says, choosing his words carefully. "Since you never wanted it, even as a political match, and now that you have the dagger back there's no reason to continue this . . . farce." The word is strangely distasteful on his tongue. But he knows that everything he's saying is true, and there's no sense pretending otherwise.

"Oh," she says, and he gets the feeling that she wasn't expecting that answer. "Yes, I . . . suppose that's what we both want."

It is what both of them want, and it all just makes sense. But that doesn't quiet the twinge of regret in his chest.

It's just that . . . since calling this truce, and ending up on the same side, he's found he actually sometimes enjoys Tamina's company. That's all. Not to mention how difficult it will be to explain all of this to his father.

Luckily divorces in the Persian empire are fairly easy to obtain, especially when both parties agree to it.

And they will. Both agree to it, that is.

Of course.

It takes longer than usual to quiet his mind and fall asleep that night.

o.o.o

He's been asleep for what feels like a long time when something pulls him awake. The sky is just beginning to be touched with pink—not long until dawn. He lays there a moment, tightening his grip on the dagger, trying to decide if it was something he heard or just restlessness that awoke him. And then he hears it again: the soft shushing sound of a deadly viper moving toward him over the sand.

"Tamina, get up!" he yells, and she starts awake, looking at him in surprise but trusting him enough to climb out of her bedroll and clamber over to join him.

"What is it?"

He gestures grimly at the the shapes moving toward them: four long, thin shadows moving inexorably in for the kill. Vipers, and he doesn't usually see them in such large groups. What is going on here?

He has no training in fighting snakes, but he hacks and slashes as best he can. One, two, three, four—one by one he manages to incapacitate each one. But he barely has time to celebrate his victory when a long whip appears from nowhere, wrapping itself around his wrist and holding tight by means of metal hooks that run down it. The man on the other end of the whip is so far away as to be little more than a shadowy patch against the gray light, but Dastan has a strong suspicion of what he is, and curses under his breath. The Hassansin gives the whip an inhumanly strong yank, and Dastan is jerked forward, straight into a tree. The collision knocks him senseless—nearly knocks him out—and he falls to the ground, the sacred dagger falling from his hand. The whip loosens from his arm and disappears back into the darkness, only to reappear a moment later, wrapping itself around the dagger and snatching it away. Dastan protests weakly and reaches out toward it, but he can barely focus his eyes, let alone stand and fight. The Hassansin with the whip takes the dagger and disappears into the trees.

Cursing under his breath at how wrong things have gone, Dastan manages to push himself up on one elbow to look for Tamina. Unfortunately she's faring even worse than he is: a second Hassansin has her pinned to the ground. His strangely pale face catches the weak light, standing out starkly against his dark clothes; one hand has Tamina by the throat, holding her down as she struggles beneath him. Fear flares in Dastan's chest, sharp and unfamiliar.

The man is speaking to Tamina, softly enough that Dastan barely catches it. "You're on your way to die for the dagger, aren't you?" He leans in close. "Let me save you the trip."

Before Dastan can wonder too much about what those words mean, he notices a viper winding its way around and down the Hassansin's arm, hissing as he nears Tamina, and he finally understands—somehow this man controls those vipers that attacked him. Maybe if he can stop the Hassansin, he can stop the vipers as well.

The spinning in his head has subsided a little, and he manages to reach into his boot, where he's hidden several darts he collected after the skirmish with the dart-throwing Hassansin in Lambsar. It's not a terribly long distance to throw, but he's still shaky and dizzy and has little faith in his ability to throw well right now. So as he forces himself into a sitting position he finds himself praying, a single word directed toward the heavens— _please_ —before he pulls back his arm and throws.

And maybe the prayer works, because the dart strikes the Hassansin in the neck, where there's no armor. There's not enough force behind it to kill the man, but he does fall backwards, releasing his hold on Tamina and hissing in pain. Shockingly pale eyes fix on Dastan a moment, filled with dizzying rage, and then the man and his viper disappear from his view; a moment later he hears the pounding of horse's hooves disappearing into the distance.

Still unable to stand, Dastan crawls to where Tamina is struggling to her feet, looking helplessly off in the direction the Hassansins disappeared. "They got the dagger, didn't they?" she says quietly.

"Tamina—" he says soothingly.

"I failed in my sacred duty!" she shouts, her voice choked with tears. "Protect the dagger, no matter the consequences. That was my destiny!"

"Tamina—"

"I should never have let you hold onto it," she says, still not looking at him. "Maybe if I'd had it—"

"Because you were doing so much better than I was?" he asked wryly. Her shoulders sag a little, and he sighs. "I know things look grim," he says. "But it could be worse. It's a miracle that we're alive, after an attack like that." Into his mind comes a memory of seeing her pinned to the ground, and the way the blood in his veins had all turned to ice—he shakes his head to banish the thought. "And we still have our horses, and we know where they're going. And now we have my brothers and the Persian army on our side; we'll catch up with them before they reach Alamut, and enlist their help to stop Nizam and the Hassansins. We aren't beaten yet."

She's quite still for a moment, then finally she turns to look at him. Her expression is still tense and angry, and she looks like she's going to argue with him again, but then her expression changes to surprise when she sees him down on the ground, and then to something like concern. "Dastan, you're bleeding."

He glances down to see blood dripping from a series of wounds on his forearm; that Hassansin's whip really did a number on him. He takes a moment to regret having taken off his long-sleeved coat for sleeping—it would have provided some protection—and then he sighs and starts looking around to see how much of a blood trail he's left. This keeps his gaze off Tamina, so he's rather surprised when she suddenly kneels before him, pulling his hand toward her to expose his arm, and carefully pouring some of the water from the water skin over the wounds to clean them. Too surprised (and still a bit too dizzy) to respond, he simply sits quietly and watches her work.

She's also brought with her the shirt Dastan wore to the wedding, the one that's been folded up in the saddlebags for the last two days; it looks a little worse for wear after its wild adventure through the desert, but the sleeves look clean, and she cuts one off with the knife and uses it to bandage his arm. When she's done she stays where she is a moment, kneeling in the sand to examine her work, and he almost doesn't want to talk and disturb the quiet that's settled around them.

But that's ridiculous. "Thank you," he says.

She lets go of his hand and looks up at him; her expression is still tight and wary, but softer than it was. "Thank you," she says reluctantly. "For getting that man off me. And for fighting those snakes." She pauses, and there's a hint of admiration in her voice when she continues, "You are very good at—" she gestures around herself in a way that seems to take in the dead snakes, the camp, and the whole desert around them— "all this."

"Glad you noticed," he smiles.

The moment of levity is brief. "And now Nizam will have the dagger. Then surely it's only a matter of time before he finds the Sand Glass. And if he uses it, I will have failed in my sacred calling."

"In your destiny?" Dastan asks with a hint of a smile. "You keep saying that. But you know what, Princess? I believe we make our own destinies. Let's start by getting the dagger back."

She looks at him a long moment, and then she nods.

They break camp in silence, carefully avoiding the pieces of snake littering the place. As they're climbing onto their horses, Tamina looks over at Dastan and speaks, very reluctantly. "I am . . . I regret shouting at you earlier."

He bites back a smile at the way she couldn't bring herself to say she was sorry. "Just don't do it again," he says. "My head already hurts enough."

She rolls her eyes, and they're on their way south.

o.o.o

Even with their early start, they still have a lot of ground to cover if they're going to catch up to Tus and Garsiv before the princes reach Alamut. So Dastan keeps a relentless pace, and cuts their rests short, and by the time the sun is nearing the horizon, they have found Tus and Garsiv's tracks.

Dastan pulls his horse alongside Tamina's. "If we push hard until dark, and get an early start tomorrow, we may just catch them before they reach Alamut."

"I am glad of it," Tamina says fervently. "I am tired of being on a horse."

"I imagine he's pretty tired of you too," Dastan teases, glancing at Tamina's mount. The horse they stole has turned out to be quite the sturdy creature, but several days of traipsing all over the desert has taken its toll on the poor beast. Dastan decides that if he survives all this, he's going to buy this horse and give it a life of ease. It's the least he can do. Tamina must be thinking the same thing, because she reaches out to pat the horse's neck affectionately; Dastan suddenly remembers the last time he saw her do that, and the way it felt to place his hand over hers, and he looks away quickly.

To cover his discomfort, he says conversationally, "What I'm most tired of is dried fruit and nuts." The food they bartered for has served them well—though it is running low—and Dastan is certainly used to army rations, but still, he could really go for a hot meal right now.

He half doesn't expect an answer; Tamina sometimes responds to small talk, but often ignores him. So he's a little surprised when, after a long pause, she responds, "A bath. That's what I want."

"I already bathed once this week," he teases. "That seems like plenty."

She looks over to fix him with a quelling look. "Believe me, prince, we would both benefit from your bathing. As would anyone forced into a ten-foot radius of you." But her tone and expression are gently teasing, not genuinely meant to barb, and he enjoys the feeling of just talking to her without the rancor and deception that characterized their early interactions.

"And I'm definitely looking forward to not worrying about Hassansin and snake attacks while I sleep," he says, ignoring her bathing comment.

She grows tense and still, her gaze fixed on the back of her horse's neck. "We nearly died this morning, didn't we?"

"I think we did," he says somberly. "It's a lucky thing the Hassansin were focused so much on the dagger, and not on killing us."

She's silent a moment. "When I was a girl, I used to dream of going on grand adventures," she says—the first time she's ever said anything about her childhood. "Now that I'm on one, I'm finding they're not quite as fun as I'd hoped."

"They can be fun," he assures her. "This just happens to be a more . . . serious adventure." But he's not thinking about adventuring; her comment about nearly dying has reminded him of that moment this morning where the Hassansin with the snakes had her pinned down, and of the words the man spoke, which he'd forgotten until just now.

_You're on your way to die for the dagger, aren't you?_

It's a strange thing to say, and Dastan finds the words bouncing around in his head as they ride in silence, side by side, for a few minutes. What did he mean? What precisely was waiting for them at the secret temple?

He supposes Tamina isn't going to be willing to tell him, but the curiosity eats at him until he finally decides he might as well ask. "About this morning," he says, and she glances over at him. "That Hassansin, he said that you're on your way to die for the dagger. What did that mean?"

Someone who didn't know Tamina might not see her response, but he's come to recognize the subtle tensing of her shoulders, the stubborn set her jaw takes. He's hit on something she doesn't want to tell him.

"Where are you really taking it?" he presses as she turns away from him, focusing only on her horse and where it's walking. "What will happen there? What aren't you telling me?"

After a moment, she says imperiously, still not looking at him. "I'd been taking it to the secret temple, where it would have been safe. That's the truth." He's coming to recognize, though, that her imperiousness is sometimes a shield she puts up around herself when she's uncomfortable.

"Part of it, maybe. What's the rest of the truth?"

Still she refuses to answer, so he urges his horse forward and turns it around so that they're blocking Tamina's way and it's harder for her to avoid his eye. Both horses come to a stop, and the two riders face each other, Tamina's gaze fixed on Dastan's shoulder. He speaks earnestly. "Tamina, please."

Finally, still not looking in his face, she speaks, using the tone he's come to recognize as the one she uses when speaking of her holy things. "The first thing I learned as high priestess is that if all else fails, I can put the dagger back into the stone. The stone will envelop it, pulling it into the mountain, returning it to the gods."

He shakes his head. "If it's that easy, why didn't someone do it ages ago?"

She hesitates. "I'm telling you this only because—depending on how things play out—you, as my husband, may have to deal with the aftermath," she says, almost like a warning.

That sounds ominous. "What does that mean?"

Another long pause, and then, reluctantly: "The original promise must be paid."

"What promise?"

She finally looks into his face, first just a glance, and then a locking of gazes. "The gods must take back the life they spared."

She looks away again as his mind spins and a horrible certainty falls into place. "You'll die."

Her jaw tightens. "I will save the world."

But he doesn't care. "Tamina, you'll die," he repeats, louder, and her eyes lock on his again, fierce and sparkling.

"We have failed to keep the dagger safe," she snaps, and he doesn't know if "we" means her fellow guardians or if it means the two of them. "Your uncle knows of it; if the Hassansins don't know what it is, they at least know it is worth killing for. And who knows how far the knowledge has spread? If your uncle uses it as he intends, the world will end. And even if we stop him, I now have no faith in our ability to protect it in the future. Our walls have been breached for the first time in centuries; we have shown to the world, and to me, that we are vulnerable. So if not your uncle, it will be someone else, and then the world will end. And I could stop it with a single act." She pauses a moment, breathing deeply, then says more quietly, "Far better that I die than that the whole world dies."

For a long few moments, there is silence between them as Dastan struggles to gather his wits; there is so much in her statement that he doesn't know how to respond to. He's never been good with words, as evidenced by the fact that all he can manage to say is "I don't want you to die."

For the briefest moment, her expression warms, like she wants to smile. But then she's all seriousness again. "It's not something you have a great deal of say in, I'm afraid."

"It does concern me a little," he points out. "I'm your husband." And then he pauses and frowns as something occurs to him.

"Not if we get an annulment," she says. "Wasn't that your plan?"

But he's barely listening, turning over the events of the last few days in his mind. "That's why you were willing to marry me," he realizes aloud. "It wasn't a matter of giving up your life in Alamut and moving with me to Nasaf in order to obtain the dagger. You were going to drug me, take the dagger, and flee to the temple. By the time anyone realized what was going on, you'd be dead. You were only willing to marry me because you expected to die soon!" It would almost be insulting, if it weren't so alarming.

Her expression is placid as she regards him, but he can read the truth in her eyes. "It wasn't meant as a personal insult," she retorts, but her voice is mild, even a little flat. Normally when she speaks of her sacred duties she is much more impassioned, and he finds it something of a relief to realize that though she is determined to die to protect the world from the dagger, she isn't looking forward to it.

"And you weren't worried about how we'd react to you running off on our wedding night?" he demands. "Garsiv, at least, would take it as a personal insult to the royal family—"

"Oh, we had a plan," she says dismissively. "There was a horse saddled and waiting for me." She hesitated. "Actually . . ."

He raises an eyebrow, and she simply reaches forward and pats her horse's neck.

"This horse?" He is incredulous. "We've been riding your horse this whole time?"

She smiles a little. "Not my personal horse, but yes, the one that had been prepared for me. That's why I led you to the stables—I knew there'd be a horse there that was ready to ride."

He has to admit, she is good at improvising. "Who chose this horse for you? It's far bigger than someone your size needs."

"I was meant to have an escort. We would have ridden the same horse."

Dastan suddenly remembers that there was an Alamutian man in armor waiting near the horse; that must have been the escort, who Tamina ended up leaving behind to keep up her charade.

"And in the meantime, a trusted servant would have tossed the room, to make it appear there'd been a struggle, and left a ransom note: kidnappers, who used the wedding feast as cover for getting into the palace, drugging your drink, and dragging me away. You would have woken up alone in the morning, and your father would have put together the money. But no one would show up for the ransom exchange, and my fate would forever remain a mystery—but in a way that would have kept the Persians from retaliating against my city."

She speaks calmly, even resignedly, but he thinks he detects a bit of hesitation in her tone. She's a true believer, but if she becomes a martyr, it will be out of necessity, not desire. Which is good; maybe he can talk her out of it.

"But now you don't have to worry about any of that. Alamut is part of the Persian empire now; our army will protect your city."

"Unless it is the Persian army I need protection from," she says primly, lifting the reins. "I have trusted you, Dastan, out of necessity—" Here she hesitates, then adds reluctantly, "And because I have come to believe that you are an honorable man." She rolls her eyes. "Don't look so pleased with yourself," she grumbles, and he obediently wipes the smirk off his face. "But I cannot trust your family. Especially given that we know that your uncle has been concealing his true character for years. So no, having the Persian army on my side does not comfort me as much as you seem to think it should. What if, in opening our gates to its protection, we are simply inviting in a thief? As we have already done, with Nizam." She shakes her head. "Returning the dagger to the stone is the only way to keep the dagger safe," she says, and urges her horse into a trot.

Dastan has no response. So he simply follows after her.

o.o.o


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early update this week, because I won't be available to do it tomorrow.

o.o.o

Things are a little tense between them as they make camp that night. Dastan watches Tamina like a hawk, wondering if she's going to run off on a suicide mission at some point, until she grumbles "I am sorry I told you anything!" and he forces himself to behave normally. He has not given up on talking her out of this idea, but it can wait until they have the dagger back in hand and he's come up with a convincing alternative for keeping it safe.

In the morning they ride hard until midday, finally catching sight of the rear sentry of the princes' troops. The soldier recognizes Dastan and Tamina and waves them on past, and in a moment they have caught up with the group, currently watering their horses at an oasis. Tus looks up and smiles bright and relieved as Dastan dismounts and a groom leads his horse away.

"Brother!" he exclaims, pulling Dastan into a tight embrace. "We'd gotten quite worried about you," he confesses. "Two whole days to find us again? We thought of sending out a search party, but, well . . ."

"Reaching Father was more important," Dastan says firmly, glancing over to confirm that a groom is helping Tamina off her horse.

Tus's sharp eyes catch the edge of the bandage peeking out from the sleeve of Dastan's coat. "Some misadventure on the journey?" he guesses.

"Hassansins," Dastan confirms grimly. "Ambushed us while we slept. We barely escaped with our lives."

Tus appears to accept that as the reason it took them so long to catch up. "And my new sister-in-law!" he says kindly as Tamina approaches them. "I am pleased to see you have come through the Hassansin attack unharmed."

Dastan looks over and is surprised to see the Tamina he has come to know over the last few days completely vanished; in her place is the Tamina he met first, with her mouth set in a grim line and disdain flashing in her eyes. "Prince Tus," she says flatly, just on the near side of politeness, and Tus shoots an apprehensive glance at Dastan, clearly wondering at the reason behind the cold reception.

Dastan stares at her, then winces as the memory comes back to him. "Tamina has spies all over Alamut," he murmurs to Tus when his wife is distracted by a groom approaching her with a full water skin. "She . . . knows you told me to kill her if you couldn't marry her."

Tus flinches, looking appropriately embarrassed. "Princess Tamina," he says formally, "I believe I owe you an apology. What I told Dastan—that was when you were an enemy of Persia—"

"That was when you suspected me of being an enemy of Persia," she reminds him, her voice tight, and it is amazing how commanding and regal she can appear even when her face is sweaty and dirty and she's dressed in tattered traveler's clothing. "A suspicion that had little real evidence behind it and has since been proven entirely false. A wise prince would have waited to have undeniable proof before he proposed the drastic step of assassinating a fellow monarch." She stares him down a moment, and Dastan is fiercely grateful not to be on the receiving end of that implacable, disapproving look. "If this is a preview of the kind of king you will prove to be, I fear the future awaiting all of us connected to the Persian empire."

She turns on her heel and makes her way to the spring to wash up, and Tus looks over at Dastan, looking as thoroughly chastised as Dastan has ever seen him. Dastan can only shrug awkwardly, because he has to admit, Tamina's right. They were all hasty in their judgment of her, and of Alamut, and he's ashamed now to look back on their behavior.

Luckily Garsiv appears then to distract the both of them from their embarrassment. "Little brother!" he says, cheerfully punching Dastan in the shoulder. "I'd begun to think you were dead. Nice to see you're not; I'm not in the mood to get dressed up for a funeral just now."

Dastan's answering smile is prompted partly by the joke and partly by the pleasure of being greeted so warmly by his brother. "You think I couldn't handle a few Hassansins?" he chuckles.

Garsiv shrugs. "I was actually afraid that woman would try to kill you."

"Who says I didn't?" comes Tamina's voice, and Dastan can't help grinning as he turns to her, remembering their wedding night when she tried to do that very thing.

Immediately Tus looks uncomfortable again. "Princess, I do apologize for my brother—"

"Don't," she says, taking her place in the circle of princes. "He's honest about how he feels. It's refreshing, really." Garsiv examines her through narrowed eyes, clearly trying to decide what she means by that. She ignores him.

"So what's our next move?" Dastan asks, and Tus responds by calling over a few captains for an impromptu war council.

The small group sits on a rug that's been spread under the shade of a tree, and Dastan notices with amusement that Tamina doesn't wait to be invited; she simply sits next to him as though she's always been a part of their inner circle.

"How far to Alamut, would you say?" she begins.

"Three hours with fresh horses," says Tus promptly.

Garsiv adds, "With our horses, more like four."

She nods, her brow furrowed in thought. "Dastan and I will not be able to just walk into the city, being fugitives as we are," she points out. "And we won't get anywhere near the king; Tus and Garsiv must be the ones to approach him. And Dastan and I shall need to disguise ourselves."

Dastan nods, but even as he does he notices some of the captains exchanging looks and muttering to each other. "Something to say, Dalir?" he asks pointedly.

Dalir is a great officer, but there's a reason he'll never be a diplomat. "Just wondering why she's here," he says bluntly. "And why you lot are taking orders from a woman."

Garsiv smirks, Tus grimaces, Tamina glares, but it's Dastan who speaks first. "Because she's the monarch of Alamut, and this concerns her as closely as it does us," he says firmly. "And you will afford her the same respect you'd give any allied foreign king, if you expect to keep your post."

That shuts Dalir up. Garsiv looks between Tamina and Dastan a few times, then exchanges a knowing look with Tus.

Tamina, on the other hand, takes it all in stride and continues as though there'd never been an interruption. "I have an idea for sneaking us in. Persian soldiers will no doubt be watching all the gates and examining all incoming travelers," she points out. "So we can't look like just any travelers."

"What is your suggestion, princess?" asks Tus earnestly, and Dastan smothers a smile at how hard his brother is trying to get into Tamina's good graces.

She smiles. "No one will be checking on your cavalry," she says. "Can anyone spare their armor?" And the three princess, seeing the cleverness of her plan, exchange grins.

It's decided that two cavalry riders will give up their armor—including their face-obscuring helmets—to Dastan and Tamina; those two soldiers will pose as grooms as the cavalry enters Alamut, and the fugitive prince and princess will ride in disguise. "Then we'll find Nizam," Dastan says. "If he's with our father, we'll all go to confront them, Tamina and I still disguised. If he's not, Tus and Garsiv will find him to warn him, and Tamina and I will seek out our uncle."

"Nizam may be dangerous," Garsiv points out. "I should be with you."

"You should be with the king," Tamina responds. "Of your brothers, you are the superior warrior, and should be used for your most important task, defending King Sharaman." Garsiv looks surprised and gratified, and says no more, clearly not seeing that Tamina has just manipulated his vanity to achieve her own ends.

"And since Tamina and I will have a harder time getting near Father, it makes sense that we be the ones to go after Nizam," says Dastan. "Besides, she knows the city better than any of us, and she'll have friends and spies in the palace who can give us information."

"True," concedes Garsiv.

Dastan continues, "Our uncle isn't much of a fighter anymore; I'll subdue him and bring him to our father."

"But you'll take some soldiers," says Tus firmly. "In case those Hassansins show up."

Dastan and Tamina exchange a look, and he knows exactly what she's thinking: they'll have to ditch those soldiers before they confront Nizam. But they can't say anything of the sort, so Tamina simply says, "Very wise."

Their plan in place, the council disperses to take advantage of the rest of their break. One of the captains undertakes the task of finding two soldiers whose armor will fit Dastan and Tamina, and Tamina herself goes to try to catch a few minutes of sleep. Dastan uses the time to go to the spring to drink and wash his arms and face a little. He's soon interrupted by the approach of his brothers and a medic they've brought along. "We thought you might like to have that arm properly looked at," Tus says.

Dastan agrees, and the medic unwraps Tamina's makeshift bandage and starts examining the wounds arrayed up and down his arm; there are more of them than Dastan realized, and he makes a face as he looks at it.

"Did you bandage that yourself?" Tus asks. "You never had much interest in battlefield medicine. More inclined to just keep fighting and hope for the best."

"Tamina insisted," Dastan says, a little distracted by the pain of the medic prodding at his arm—but not so distracted as to not notice his brothers exchanging looks again. "What?"

"Nothing!" Tus says with a smile. "It's just nice to see you so . . . content. You know, domestically."

Garsiv is more blunt. "I never thought I'd see the Lion of Persia reduced to a little kitty cat," he smirks.

"I am not—"

"Please, Dastan, we all saw you two together back there—exchanging meaningful looks and practically finishing each other's sentences. I was right; Tamina has you wrapped around her finger."

"Garsiv's just jealous that neither of his wives have the mind or the inclination to join him in a war council," Tus chuckles, and Garsiv rolls his eyes in agreement.

"Can you imagine?" he groans.

Tus ignores him. "You have something wonderful and uncommon: an arranged marriage with the potential to turn to genuine affection. It's a blessing to be thankful for, not an embarrassment. No matter what this idiot thinks." And he affectionately punches Garsiv in the shoulder.

Dastan stares at his brothers a long time. He wants to say they have it wrong, that his behavior to her has only been what a man of honor ought to do in his situation, but he's not quite sure that's true. And then he wants to say that it doesn't matter, because Tamina only married him to further her own ends, but that will lead to questions he can't answer. So he simply grumbles, "You're both idiots."

"But we're right," says Tus with a smile.

"You don't even like her," Dastan points out to Garsiv. "Or trust her."

"But I trust you," Garsiv says, "and you clearly trust her. So I'm willing to put judgment on hold for a little while." Then he leans in close. "I hope your good sense hasn't been chased away by her womanly wiles. I know what it's like to be newly married, Dastan, but don't let your head be overcome by other—"

"That's enough," says Dastan loudly, rising to his feet. "I am not having this conversation with you." And he leaves to the sound of his brothers' laughter behind him.

o.o.o

Thirty minutes later they are getting ready to leave again. Two sets of armor have been procured, their owners dressed in the simple clothing of the grooms and their horses standing ready for the prince and princess. Dastan puts his on quickly—it's not what he normally wears, but he's familiar enough with it that it's no trick getting all the pieces in place—but Tamina, unused to wearing armor, struggles with hers.

"Need some help?" he grins after watching her turn the breastplate around three or four times, clearly trying to figure out which is the front.

She examines him a long moment, then shrugs. "I suppose I might enjoy having a prince of Persia as my personal servant," she concedes.

He rolls his eyes and smirks as he takes the breastplate from her hands. "You just can't let a chance to put Persia down pass you by, can you?" 

"You're right," she says solemnly as he slips the piece over her shoulders. "Choosing such an easy target is beneath me."

He snorts and she smiles, and they're silent a moment as he adjusts how it sits; it's not designed for a woman, and it hangs a little oddly, but it probably won't be noticeable once she has all the other pieces on. And then she adds, "But in the spirit of fairness, I have to admit that certain of you Persians are less deserving of my scorn than others."

"High praise indeed. People will think you've gone soft."

She laughs quietly at that, and his hands grow still against her side, where he's doing up the clasps, as the thought of what the rest of the day might bring fills his mind.

"Dastan?" she prompts quietly, after a few moments of him simply standing there and staring down at the breastplate.

He lifts his gaze to hers. "Depending on how things go, we could have my uncle in chains and the dagger back in your hands by the end of the day," he points out.

"I am earnestly praying that this happens," she agrees.

He hesitates, worrying, wondering, unaccustomed to showing this kind of vulnerability. And then he takes a fortifying breath. "Just promise me something?" he asks.

She tilts her head inquisitively.

"When you get your hands on the dagger—just promise me you'll talk to me before you do anything rash."

She is surprised, he can see by the lift of her eyebrows. And then her expression takes on a thoughtful, curious look. "Why?"

She needs a reason to not just run headlong into killing herself? "I'm a little young to be a widower," he says flatly. "Please?"

She hesitates, examining him a long, quiet moment, and then she nods. "Fine," she says. "I promise."

"Promise what?" says Garsiv, approaching from behind with Tus, and Tamina turns, her face lifting so easily into a practiced smile that Dastan can't help being impressed. 

"I promised not to tell his brothers how nervous he was on our wedding day," she lies smoothly, turning it into a joke. "And how he couldn't even make eye contact with me during the wedding feast. So please don't ask; I'm sworn to secrecy."

"I assumed _you_ didn't want to look at _me_ ," Dastan grumbles, and Garsiv and Tus both laugh and the original question is forgotten.

It prompts a new one, though, as Dastan buckles on Tamina's vambraces. "You never did tell us," Garsiv points out, "why she's here." It seems he hasn't gotten out of his habit of addressing Dastan and ignoring Tamina; Dastan's not sure whether it's because she's a woman or because it's this particular woman.

Tus, however, appears to be trying harder to be polite to her. "If you don't mind us asking, princess."

Dastan can see from the subtle shift of her expression that she's noticed how Tus changed the conversation to include her, and appreciates it. "It was an Alamutian robe that would have killed your father," she points out. "I feared that I would be accused of being part of the conspiracy." She hesitates. "And I never believed in Dastan's guilt. His horror at the accusation was too heartfelt to be feigned."

He wonders if that's true; she's so determined to protect the dagger that he assumes she would have followed him into the desert even if she had believed him a murderer. The thought amuses him a little; that mix of bravery and foolhardiness makes her rather a good match for him, actually.

Soon they're on their way to Alamut, and Dastan basks in the comfort and security of traveling once again with soldiers; for the first time in a few days, he can actually relax, knowing that if something were to occur, he wouldn't have to handle it all by himself. The cavalry is trained to move quickly, and they catch sight of Alamut some five or six hours before sundown. The group stops for a moment so Garsiv can say something to his sentries, and as they wait, Dastan glances over at Tamina beside him to see that her shoulders are slumping in what he's certain is relief.

"Pleased to be home?" he grins.

"I don't know if the city has ever looked more beautiful," she says fervently.

"Ah," he says, "but you should have seen it before my hordes of camel-riding illiterates descended upon it."

She laughs aloud at that, a surprised, pleased sound, and he notices that a lock of her hair has come loose from where it's braided and tucked up under helmet. "You've got a—never mind, let me." He maneuvers his horse a little closer and carefully tucks the hair back into place. She watches him quietly, but with the helmet obscuring so much of her face, he can't read her expression.

"That's . . . done, then," he says, suddenly embarrassed to realize how cozy and intimate that must have appeared.

Tamina watches him silently a moment longer, then turns her gaze back to the city. "I don't know that I've ever thanked you," she says in that formal tone she seems to default to when she feels vulnerable. "In your decision to help me, and not to keep—" she glances around to see who may be overhearing— "a certain item for yourself, you have done Alamut a great service, and shown yourself to be a man of honor."

"Ah," he grins, "so it turns out I'm not 'brutal and without honor' after all?"

"It's very rare," she says loftily, but with amusement in her voice, "but I have been wrong once or twice in my life. It seems that was one of the occasions." Perhaps her eyes have fallen on the repair crews just visible on certain parts of the wall, because she adds, "Even if you did breach the walls of my city."

His eyes find the section of wall that he scaled in a battle that happened less than two weeks ago but feels like more like a century or two in the past. So much has happened since then; the world that he understood and relied on has been blasted apart and then slowly rebuilt, brick by brick, into something new and strange and bittersweet and strong. "Well, I'm starting to think that I'm no longer the same man who breached those walls."

She glances over at him. "That's a short time for a man to change so much." He can hear the smile in her voice.

He shrugs. "Perhaps. But I'm learning that time's a little more fluid than I realized."

She smiles at that, then falls a silent a moment. "Well, this new man you've become . . . I'm pleased he's on my side."

He smiles, but before he can respond, a shout comes from the front of the group: it's time to move on.

o.o.o


	11. Chapter 11

o.o.o

The cavalry rides through the gates of Alamut half an hour later. Their camp is outside the walls, where they can find grass for their mounts, but as per tradition they accompany the princes all the way to the palace, for safety. As Tamina predicted, no one looks twice at the group, never dreaming that the two fugitives might be hidden among their ranks.

At the steps of the palace the group comes to a halt, and before they've even dismounted, a figure comes scurrying to meet them: Bis, obviously here to report the news of the attempted assassination and Dastan's flight, and Dastan feels a wave of relief to know that the events of that night haven't caused any problems for his best friend.

"Your highnesses," Bis says in a hushed voice, "I have some very bad news."

"We know, Bis," says Tus heavily. "And we have some news for you. Follow us to the stables?" It's unusual, but not unheard of, for the princes see to their own horses, so Bis seems not to think anything of it as he trots alongside the horses back to the stables.

When they get there, half of the cavalry dismounts, planning to accompany the princes to protect the king. The rest of the group goes back to the camp outside the walls to rally the troops for what may prove to be a fight with Nizam. Tus orders the Alamutian and Persian stablehands to leave, and when they are finally all alone with the stable doors closed and locked, Dastan and Tamina remove their helmets.

Bis jumps in surprise, then breaks out in a relieved smile. "I knew you'd be all right," he says, clapping Dastan on the shoulder. "But how did you avoid the Persian patrols? Your uncle has sent dozens of soldiers out to find you."

"I've been lucky," Dastan says with a grin. "I'm pleased you haven't run away screaming from the accused murderer yet."

Bis scoffs. "Please. You're no more capable of doing something to hurt Sharaman than I am of sprouting wings and flying away. I never believed it, not for a second." He looks over at Tamina and makes a quick bow. "Your highness, glad to see you're still in one piece as well."

"Bis, is it?" she says with an incline of her head. "A pleasure."

"So what's been happening here?" Garsiv asks.

"The king has mostly been holed up in his rooms praying since it happened. Omid's troops have kept up constant guard, with our company as an outer line of defense in and around the palace—blending in with the servants and the like." He glances uneasily at Tamina. "The Persian crown has temporarily taken control of ruling the city, until your part in Dastan's escape can be investigated thoroughly."

Tamina sighs, looking suddenly very weary.

Bis looks back at Dastan. "Your father was there when Nizam questioned me, but he seemed less interested in your whereabouts and more interested in discovering how he could have been so deceived in your affections for him."

Dastan's hands tighten into fists.

"I told him you love him as much as any son could love a father. Nizam had some choice words to describe how much of an idiot I'd have to be to believe that."

The three princes exchange a look. "I'm not surprised he was so eager to dismiss anything that spoke to Dastan's innocence," says Garsiv. "Since he's the one who's actually guilty."

Bis's eyes grow wide and round, and he listens with rapt attention as the princes describe the events of the last few days: how it was Nizam who gave Tus the robe, how the Hassansins that Nizam swore he'd gotten rid of attacked twice out in the desert.

"We can only assume he's planning to kill everyone who stands between him and the throne," Tus says. "Since simply killing our father wouldn't make him king."

"That's if becoming king is his goal," Bis points out. "If he resents his brother for the years he spent serving under him, the pleasure of simply having Sharaman dead might have been the end goal." The princes nod thoughtfully, and Dastan and Tamina exchange a glance.

"Either way," says Dastan, "we need to find both of them. Now."

"Sharaman was in his room as of when I left the palace just now," Bis reports. "Nizam is just north of the palace, directing the soldiers searching for forges. They've been digging a lot; Nizam's convinced that the hidden forges must be underground."

A glance at Tamina's face tells Dastan that digging holes north of the palace puts Nizam dangerously close to the Sand Glass.

"We split up, then," Tus decides. "Garsiv, myself, and you three—" he points to a cluster of soldiers— "will go to warn and guard our father. Dastan, Tamina, Bis and the rest of you will find Nizam."

"When we've convinced Father, we'll come look for you," Garsiv promises. "And if you find Nizam before we've found you, you come to us."

Everyone nods, and Garsiv and Tus each put a hand on Dastan's shoulder.

"Be careful, little brother," says Tus.

"Nizam may have forces loyal to him," Garsiv points out. "And Hassansins. Feel free to commandeer any soldiers to join your search."

Dastan nods. "I hope Father believes you."

Tus sighs. "So do I."

o.o.o

The first thing to do is to get out of this clunky armor, so Dastan steps to Tamina's side and begins unbuckling her breastplate while she quickly rebraids her hair, which has become disheveled after being tucked into that helmet so long. He hands the armor off to Bis, ignoring the amused look his friend gives him, then starts on his own.

"Listen," he says to the assembled soldiers as he works, "I'm changing the plan a little. Nizam himself isn't much of a threat, but he has Hassansins on his side, and they are our real concern. Dalir!"

The captain snaps to attention.

"Take these soldiers and spread word to the forces in the city to be on the lookout for intruders in black robes. But say nothing to the soldiers currently helping Nizam search—we don't know where their loyalties lie. Then take up positions where you can observe Nizam, but don't engage until I or my brothers tell you to—or the situation changes drastically enough to warrant it. Bis, gather our company and search the city for evidence of Hassansins, starting with the north, where Nizam currently is. Stealth is the key here."

Both men agree, but uncertainty still haunts Bis's expression. "Are you going after Nizam alone?" he says. "I know he doesn't seem much of a physical threat, but . . ."

"I appreciate your concern, old friend," Dastan says warmly. "But I need you to trust me here."

Bis hesitates, then nods. The two man clasp each other's wrists, and Dastan hopes desperately that he has not just sent his oldest friend to grave danger. "Be careful," he says. "The Hassansins are just as dangerous as the stories make them sound."

He nods at Bis and Dalir, who nod back and then make their way out of the stables; the other soldiers follow, leaving Dastan and Tamina alone. In silence they change back into the travelers' clothing they stuffed in their saddlebags, though now that they're not worried about protecting their skin from the sun, they can leave off the outermost layers; it's a relief to not be weighed down by so much heavy clothing. The last thing they do is arm themselves with weapons lent them by the soldiers: Dastan takes a long sword, his personal favorite, along with a few throwing knives. Tamina takes a smaller sword and knife for herself.

Then, with a nod at him, she leads him out of the stables, across the stable yard, and to what appears to be a small, nondescript shed huddled against the outer walls of the servants' wing of the palace. At the back of the shed is another door, and when they slip through it, they find themselves in a familiar long corridor.

"This is how we escaped that night, isn't it?" Dastan asks. His memories of that evening are still fuzzy because of whatever Tamina slipped into his drink, but he's fairly certain it's the same place.

She nods. "There's a series of hallways that leads all over the palace, to allow us to go about our duties in the palace and the High Temple in privacy."

"And sneak your dagger to safety," he guesses. "Your forebears were clever."

She snorts. "Centuries of guarding the most dangerous object on earth required them to be." She glances around. "Let us hope fervently no Persians are in here now."

Together they creep down the hallway, Tamina stopping every so often to peek through doorways or slits in the walls until she apparently sees what she's after. "Thank goodness, it's Farah," she breathes, and raps a quiet pattern on the door she stands near.

A moment later the door opens and a woman slips into the secret hallway with them. She's older, richly dressed, and very dignified looking, and after a moment Dastan remembers why he knows her: she's the woman who escorted Tamina on their wedding day, and who pulled the poisoned robe off Celon, the old regent. Indeed, Dastan can see that her hands are still not healed from those burns.

Farah heaves a great sigh of relief and embraces Tamina tightly. "My princess, I was so worried." Her gaze falls on Dastan then, and her expression twists in disgust, but Tamina steps in before she can say anything.

"He's on our side," she assures the woman, and turns to Dastan. "This is Farah, a fellow priestess, and my second-in-command. Please, Farah, tell me all the news."

With another suspicious look at Dastan, Farah quickly confirms what Bis said about Sharaman and Nizam taking control of the government, pending an investigation into Tamina's actions on the night of the wedding. She also informs Tamina that Celon is expected to survive—Tamina gives such a sharp sigh of relief at the news that Dastan nearly reaches out a comforting hand before he catches himself—and that Nizam has been digging north of the city.

"Nizam's behind all of this: the invasion, the assassination attempt." Tamina's mouth takes on a firm set. "He did it all to steal the dagger and is now trying to reach the Sand Glass."

This news doesn't seem to surprise Farah much. "I'd wondered," she says. "I saw he had burns on his hands like mine, but he never touched the robe that night. I just supposed he'd been in on the plot with . . . well, you know."

"Yes, with me," says Dastan with a sigh.

"Is he close?" Tamina demands.

Farah eyes Dastan again.

"You can say anything you'd say to me in front of Dastan," Tamina assures her. "He . . . knows. Everything."

Farah raises an eyebrow (Dastan is coming to see that she is talented in nonverbal communications).

"I know I'll have a great deal to explain to the Council," Tamina says, her patience visibly wearing thin. "But for now, Nizam?"

With a sigh, the woman nods. "He's very close. I imagine he'll break through to the Chamber any time now. The Council is meeting in just a few minutes to discuss what to do about it."

"Tell them to do nothing," Tamina commands, and looks back at Dastan. "We're going to stop Nizam."

Dastan nods and tries to look competent and reliable.

Farah examines him a long moment, then nods. "May the gods bless your efforts," she says.

"Are the catacombs guarded?" Tamina asks.

"They have not yet even been discovered."

"Then that is where we must go." Tamina steps forward and clasps Farah's hands. "Tell the Council we are doing all in our power to prevent disaster," she says. "And ask them to pray."

Farah smiles at her a moment. "I am grateful you have returned to us, Tamina." And then she looks determinedly at Dastan. "Keep the princess safe," she says. "Protect the dagger."

Feeling as though he just got initiated into their little secret club without quite meaning to be, Dastan nods. "I will do my best."

"You'll have to," says Farah ominously. "Nizam is a very dangerous man, with the greatest temptation of all before him."

Farah returns to whatever room she was just in, and Tamina strides purposefully down the hallway. Stopping only to get a torch from a wall sconce, she leads Dastan to a staircase that spirals down below ground level.

"What's in the catacombs?" Dastan asks as the stones around them change from the white of the palace to a rougher gray.

"The guardians built passageways underneath the city, as secret access to the Sand Glass," she explains. "In case of emergency, we can collapse the larger, more easily accessible passageways to protect the Sand Glass from intruders, as we did when your army attacked. But this final, most secret passageway stays open even then. Only three people living know about it." She eyes Dastan in the light of the torch. "Now four, I suppose. If we move fast enough, we can get there before Nizam."

The staircase ends in a dusty subterranean hallway festooned with cobwebs; deliberately uncleaned, Dastan guesses, to conceal its true purpose. A few beams of sunlight come from the top of a crumbling set of stairs nearby that seems to lead to the surface; the top of those stairs must be concealed somehow, if Nizam didn't find it, but the covering seems to allow a bit of light in. In that light, aided by the torch Tamina still carries, Dastan sees her step toward a neglected-looking statue, reach toward it, then stop.

Immediately on guard, Dastan reaches for his sword. "What is it?"

She hesitates, then says, her eyes fixed on his shoulder. "This is going to be dangerous. Nizam may be in there, and he may have Hassansins with him."

He takes a step toward her. "Don't worry," he says. "I'll protect you."

She shoots him an amused, exasperated look that doesn't quite mask the concern in her eyes. "That's not what I meant," she says. "This has been my destiny since the day I was born. I've had my whole life to accustom myself to the fact that I might one day die for the dagger. But you . . . this is not your fight."

A smile touches his face, even as warmth creeps into his chest. "Is that concern I hear?"

She answers imperiously, but there's a smile behind it. "Caution."

"Sprinkled with concern," he adds, keeping the conversation light. She's never looked at him like this before, and he finds himself working hard to keep from doing something stupid and ruining the moment.

"You flatter yourself, prince," she says—it sounds like their usual banter, but the feelings behind it are entirely new and different, somehow.

Because she's never looked at him like this before.

And maybe that's the reason he can't keep himself from reaching out to cup her face with this hand—his fingertips in her hair, his thumb brushing her cheek. As she stares up at him, his breathing grows shallow a moment, his insides twisting in a not-unpleasant way. "We make our own destiny," he finds the voice to say. "And this is the one I choose right now."

She stares a moment, and then she nods. And they break away from each other.

Tamina returns to the statue and reaches around behind it; a moment later a section of wall nearby lifts up to reveal a passageway. They find themselves in a huge cavern, whether natural or man-made Dastan cannot tell, though where they stand has beautifully carved porches and roofs decorating it. Either way, it amazes him to know that all of this has been hidden under the palace for so long. The chamber is dimly lit by a few shafts of sunlight, and Tamina places her torch in a wall sconce. "It will throw me off balance," she explains in response to his questioning look. She turns and points across the chamber; some distance away, across the sandy floor, is a structure of some kind—a pavilion, perhaps, ringed with columns. Whatever it was when first built, it has fallen into disrepair over the years and is now little more than a few columns standing indistinctly in the dim light. Or perhaps it was built to look ruined, to not attract curious eyes in the very unlikely event that someone uninitiated somehow found that secret switch behind the statue. "That will lead us to the Sand Glass chamber."

He moves forward but she quickly catches his arm. "There is only one safe path." She kneels and carefully brushes away some of the sand at her feet, revealing a hidden stone or tile with a design carved in it. With a look of satisfaction she rises and steps carefully on the design; a series of thumps sounds while whirls of sand rise in a zigzag pattern toward the pavilion. It's like a puzzle, he realizes—a pattern that she has to walk to get safely to the pavilion. "Follow in my footsteps. Nothing can touch the surface, other than where I step."

Not eager to discover what will happen if he breaks this rule, Dastan obediently follows her onto the sand. Carefully they step together back and forth across the sand, and only when they reach the pavilion does he realize he's been holding his breath. Tamina breathes a sigh of relief. "That was the hard part," she says.

The pavilion has a staircase set in the floor, and he follows her down it. The sunlight filtering in from above lights their way at first, and Dastan can't help staring at what it illuminates. This is not simply a staircase; they pass landings with hallways branching off them, and windows, and what appear to be rooms; everything is intricately carved and beautiful. "Where are we?" he asks in amazement.

"The first palace of the guardians," Tamina explains, and finally Dastan understands—that pavilion they entered was in fact on the roof, and they are moving down into the bowels of the building. "Built inside the Sand Glass chamber, so they could be close to what they were to protect. But as others started to settle in the region, the notion of an underground palace began to cause curiosity. So the guardians moved aboveground and built a proper fortress, which was the beginning of the present-day palace—all to throw off suspicion—and turned the old passageways to the palace and the chamber into the protected, secret tunnels we have now. The city grew up around the fortress, and in time the guardians named the high priestess their monarch and Alamut became a city-state. But it has always been a cover, a way to throw suspicion off all this." She gestures at the beautiful building around them, long since uninhabited. "This is the true heart of Alamut." She hesitates, then points. "Well, that is."

At some point in her speech, the light, which had been rapidly dimming the farther they descend into the old palace, had begun to brighten again. But it's a strange yellow-orange color that flickers a little, neither sunlight nor firelight—something he's never seen before. And when Tamina's pointing finger leads his gaze out a window they're approaching, he finally sees where the light's coming from.

The Sand Glass of the Gods is not what he expected. The sand glasses he's seen back home being used to keep time are beautifully crafted and smooth, and he supposes he'd thought it'd be something like that. It is, in fact, nothing like that.

In texture it is like an outgrowth of the rock itself, jagged and rough. In shape it is a little like a sand dervish or whirlwind, a tall column that gives the sense of twisting, despite being quite still. But in color and appearance it is like nothing he has ever seen: a bright yellow-orange, glowing and pulsing hypnotically, bright enough to fill the whole chamber with light. It is at once the most beautiful and most frightening thing he's ever seen.

He doesn't get to look at it for too long before Tamina takes his hand to lead him away from the window and continue on their journey downstairs. Neither of them says anything about it, but she doesn't let go, and neither does he.

They soon reach what he guesses to be the ground floor of the building, based on the large chamber they're in, with the massive door looking out onto the chamber and the Sand Glass. And although he is still transfixed by the sight, he is not so distracted as to not hear the quiet fall of footsteps belonging neither to him nor Tamina. He looks quickly in that direction and a flash of metal catches his eye; he shoves Tamina away from himself as he ducks in the other direction, and a split second later, a sword swings through the spot they'd been standing just a moment before.

Dastan turns his desperate lunge into a roll and comes up with his sword drawn. The figure that has emerged from the shadow is all too familiar to him: the ghostly face, the unnaturally pale eyes—the Hassansin with the snakes, and he grimaces. At least, though, he can see Tamina scrambling to get out of the man's range; she's clever enough to keep herself out of trouble so he can focus entirely on the upcoming fight.

Without a word Dastan strikes; the Hassansin parries easily and, with a dagger in his free hand, makes a jab that Dastan barely manages to dodge. The man is incredibly quick, but at least he hasn't pulled out the vipers yet.

On they fight—lunge and thrust, parry and cut—and at first Dastan's mind is full with the frustration of how much time the Hassansin is making them waste when they should be going after Nizam. But soon those thoughts are lost in his growing concern as he realizes this is perhaps the most dangerous fight he has ever found himself in. This Hassansin is his equal—maybe just a bit better than him—with the sword, to say nothing of his snake-controlling ability. Not to mention, Dastan's sword arm is still injured from the Hassansin with the spiked whip; he can still use it well enough, but anything that jars it causes him pain, and he's used to fighting through pain but the repeated jolts of it are becoming distracting.  


Soon he can think of nothing but the fight, and soon after that, of nothing but staying alive. If he could spare the time and attention, he'd look around to see if Tamina'd had the sense to leave and look for Nizam. But he can't; all he can do is hope that she did, for the sake of the dagger and herself. He's begun to fear he won't win this fight, and once the Hassansin has killed Dastan, surely he'll move to Tamina. Not to mention, he doesn't want her to have to watch him die.  


Eventually the Hassansin gets the upper hand and pins Dastan to a wall, trapping his arms with an inhuman strength that he can do nothing against. And now here comes the snake; the Hassansin has weapons enough to finish the job, so Dastan can only assume he enjoys using the snakes for the kill. Whatever the reason, he can do nothing but stare in horror as a wickedly horned viper slithers over the man's shoulder and down his arm toward Dastan. And then something entirely unexpected happens.

Tamina appears in Dastan's peripheral vision. He wants to warn her to get away before the Hassansin kills her too, but he doesn't want to draw the man's attention to her, and anyway he's entirely out of breath. A delicate pale hand darts out and grabs the snake just below its head, and with a grunt of effort, the princess jerks the snake toward the Hassansin's face. The viper, clearly never one to turn down the opportunity to bite someone, even if that someone is its master, sinks its fangs into the man's eye. He screams in pain, releasing Dastan and staggering backward, and Dastan doesn't hesitate to run his sword through the man's stomach.

The Hassansin staggers back more, toward the front door, a look of shock on his face that fades into blankness as he starts to collapse. His backward momentum takes him over a ledge just outside the front door, and he falls into darkness, and then all is silent.

Dastan and Tamina stand together in shock for a moment—but only a moment. Quickly he turns to her, checking her over for injury, even as he breathes deeply, trying to catch his breath. She's giving him the same searching look, taking the same heaving breaths.

They stand together, staring and breathing, and the thought that pops into his head is that he can't believe he used to dislike this woman so much. In fact, far from disliking her now, he finds he wants to— He steps toward her, and in the same moment she steps toward him, her hands coming up to grasp at his sleeves—

And in that moment something on the other side of the chamber catches his eye. It's hard to see with the light from the Sand Glass blinding him a little, but it appears a dark shape is being lowered from the ceiling. A pinprick of orange light falls from the dark shape and tumbles toward the ground.

"Nizam," he says aloud, and Tamina turns to look. It must be him, and he must have tossed away his torch now that he sees he does not need it in the light of the Sand Glass. His uncle will be at the Sand Glass in only a few minutes.  


Dastan looks down at Tamina. The moment of . . . whatever that was about to become is gone. She smiles at him, just a little, and he takes her hand firmly in his as they run out of the old palace and toward the Sand Glass to confront Nizam.

o.o.o


	12. Chapter 12

o.o.o

A sense of menace, prickling at the back of Dastan’s neck, grows ever stronger the nearer they reach to the Sand Glass, though he doesn’t know how much of that is due to the the way the Sand Glass looks and how much is due to what he knows of the dangers it possesses. Fortunately, the contraption that Nizam is being lowered on is moving very slowly, and even more fortunately, the paths and ledges that lead to the Sand Glass happen to be entirely out of his eyeline. So Dastan and Tamina manage to reach the Sand Glass before Nizam does and without his even realizing they are there.

They’ve discussed the matter and on one point they are in perfect agreement: they must get the dagger away from Nizam before he sees them, for if he’s given the chance, he will certainly use the dagger—the hilt of which is still full—to turn back time and avoid their attack. To that end, Dastan hides himself behind a boulder very near the Sand Glass, ready to spring out and disarm his uncle. He’s armed with a few throwing knives and with the sword Tamina brought down with her, as his sword is embedded in a dead Hassansin somewhere at the bottom of this cavern.

Tamina is hidden nearby as well, now armed only with a knife. This is a point on which they are most emphatically not in agreement: he doesn't want her anywhere near Nizam, especially with so little protection. She is determinedly ignoring him.

In silence they wait as the suspended platform bumps to a stop at the edge of the little plateau they’re on, and as Nizam’s footsteps grow closer to the Sand Glass. Dastan will have only one chance to get this right, and he waits, tense as a coiled spring, until Nizam comes into sight, too transfixed by the sight of the Sand Glass to notice his nephew hiding just steps away. Nizam takes a breath, then reaches out and up, ready to plunge the dagger in. And Dastan acts.

In one swift movement, he steps forward and brings the flat edge of the sword down hard on his uncle’s wrist. And it works; his sword finds its mark at the base of the thumb bone, making Nizam cry out in pain and drop the dagger.

And then everything goes wrong at once. The dagger bounces and skitters away, but Dastan had not noticed the mild downward slope of the ground he’s standing on, and the dagger slides toward the edge of the plateau, where it will undoubtedly fall hundreds of feet into the depths. That might not be the worst thing in the world, but Tamina cries out and rushes toward the dagger—a instinctive act, Dastan has no doubt, after all these years protecting it. Dastan, despite knowing better, is distracted by the dagger as well, and takes his attention off his uncle to watch it slide. That’s when Nizam strikes.

With speed and power Dastan didn’t know his uncle capable of, Nizam reaches out and grabs Tamina as she runs past him, spinning around with her so the force of her mad dash doesn’t pull him over. When he’s come around to face Dastan again, he’s produced a knife from somewhere in his robes and has it pressed to Tamina’s neck.

The dagger somehow finds a flat section of ground and slows to a stop, safely several feet from the edge.

“You,” Nizam hisses, and Dastan feels his heart drop. He realizes now that some part of him had hoped that this would all turn out to be a mistake, that his uncle is innocent and everything can be explained away. But the look on Nizam’s face disabuses him of that notion very quickly.

“How could you?” Dastan demands. “We are your family.”

The sneer on Nizam’s face drops away into a very faint amused contempt. “And my curse.”

With anger surging through him, Dastan moves as though to step toward his uncle, and Nizam tightens his hand around Tamina’s arm until she cries out in pain. “You make a move toward me and she dies,” he says calmly, as though remarking on the weather. “The same goes for if you so much as look at that dagger.”

“Don’t do this, Nizam!” Tamina begs. “Don’t use the dagger to undo your past! It will unleash—”

“Unleash what?” Nizam roars suddenly. “The gods’ wrath? Hell itself? Foolish superstitions, designed to keep the dagger from the weak-minded.”

“What if it’s true?” Dastan says. “We’ll all be dead. You can’t be king if you destroy us all.”

All this accomplishes is turning Nizam’s murderous gaze on Dastan. “You, boy, will drop your sword, then go back to the platform and use the rope in the corner to tie yourself to the railing. If you do this, maybe she survives.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tamina tells Dastan desperately. “You know what will happen if he uses the dagger this way.”

“Tamina,” Dastan whispers, heart pounding.

“Drop your sword,” growls Nizam, and when Dastan doesn’t comply, he presses the knife closer to Tamina’s throat. A line of red wells up along its edge, and a drop of blood trickles down to stain the collar of her tunic. Instinctively, Dastan drops his sword.

“Very good,” says Nizam mockingly. “Now, the rope.”

“Dastan, you can’t do this,” Tamina begs, her eyes suddenly bright and glassy.

He clenches his hands into fists. “But I can’t let you die, either.”

“You must let me die!” she insists. “You know the costs. If the glass shatters, the world dies with it. Better that I die than that the whole world dies, remember? I’m ready for this, truly I am.”

“I’m not,” he whispers, fear and indecision and grief freezing him in place.

Nizam scowls and digs the knife in just a little deeper. “You’re running out of time.”

“You must stop him,” Tamina insists, as tears start to roll down her face. “It’s not my destiny, it’s yours. It always has been.”

The word “destiny” echoes in his ears. He’s heard a great deal about destiny and the dagger lately, and with a sudden onset of clarity, he knows what to do. He gives Tamina a small smile, steeling himself. “I believe we make our own destiny,” he says, and runs.

Running away from Tamina might be the hardest thing he’s ever done; his instinctive human urge to avoid death overrides a few mere days of knowing there exists a dagger that can turn back time. As he pelts toward the dagger, he braces himself for the thud that will be Tamina’s body hitting the ground. But what happens is much worse: Nizam apparently decides against slitting her throat—too messy, most likely—and instead swings her around and shoves her hard toward the edge of the plateau. She can’t catch herself in time, and out of the corner of Dastan’s eye, he sees her tumbling over the edge, her light-colored clothing making her stand out like a falling star against the darkness of the cavern as she disappears into the black depths below them. The scream she lets out—he thinks he hears his own name mixed in there—is one he knows will haunt him forever.

But he can fix this.

_Please,_ he prays, _let me fix this_.

He dives onto the dagger, but Nizam tackles him almost immediately, having been closer to the dagger to begin with with. Mustering all his strength, Dastan keeps his uncle from grabbing the dagger, and instead pushes down the jewel on the hilt himself.

Immediately he is pulled out of his body, and watches from a shower of golden sparks as the scene runs backwards: Nizam un-tackles him; Dastan’s other self jumps off the dagger; Tamina reappears up from the depths and lands back on solid ground (Dastan breathes a sigh of relief); the three stand together, shouting and crying; Nizam releases Tamina; Tamina runs backward to her hiding place; the dagger flies across the ground and back into Nizam’s hand; Dastan’s other self retreats back into his hiding place.

The sand runs out just as Dastan is bringing the flat of his sword down on Nizam’s wrist, and this time he’s ready. “Stay there, Tamina!” he yells as she darts out of her hiding place. His sword goes up to point at Nizam’s throat.

She hesitates. “But Dastan—”

“Trust me,” he insists, and wonder of wonders, she does.

The dagger comes to a stop, safe and sound a few feet from the edge of the plateau. Nizam is detained. Tamina is safe. And relief courses through Dastan.

But only for a moment. “How could you, Uncle?” he demands; he knows they’ve already had this conversation, but he can’t stop himself. “You had what every man could ever dream of: love, respect, family.”

“Ah, yes,” says Nizam flatly. “A lifetime of keeping the king’s wineglass filled and living off what scraps he elected to throw me. How could I possibly have wanted anything else?”

“Father loved you above all others,” Dastan insists. “He gave you everything.”

A bitter smile twists Nizam’s lips. “So eager to defend your benefactor.” He gives his head an amused shake. “Poor Dastan, always charging in, so desperate to prove you are more than something the king scraped off the street.”

Dastan can’t help flinching. What hurts most of all is that he’s right; Nizam did always have a gift for seeing through to the heart of things. (And though this is absolutely the wrong time to be thinking about this, he can’t help but be embarrassed that Tamina is hearing these very private truths about himself.)

Nizam must see the flinch, because he presses on. “I never understood why my brother brought trash into the palace.”

He’s just trying to rattle Dastan, to get inside his head. But it’s also clear from his expression that he means it, absolutely, and Dastan knows that when this fight is over and he has the luxury of vulnerability, he’s going to be reeling from this conversation. Nizam had been the one to introduce him to the palace, to see to much of his training and education. And just as Sharaman had tutored Tus in statecraft and Garsiv in military strategy, Nizam had tutored Dastan in court politics, training him up to advise the king someday. Dastan had believed that Nizam had seen a little of himself in his adopted nephew, had been proud of the boy who would follow in his footsteps.

How very wrong he had been.

Still, all of this does have one advantage: knowing how his uncle truly feels about him makes it easier to do what must be done. “Turn around,” he commands Nizam.

Nizam just tilts his head a little and examines him, looking bored.

“Turn around,” Dastan repeats harshly, stepping forward until the point of his sword is resting in the hollow of his uncle’s throat, so that he can feel it when his uncle swallows a bit nervously.

“Fine,” Nizam hisses, and turns around.

Immediately Dastan strikes him across the back of the head and he falls to the ground.

“Now may I get the dagger?” Tamina asks. Dastan nods. “And the rope from that platform, if you please.” In the meantime, he searches his uncle’s robes, divesting him of several other weapons.

When Tamina returns, she helps him tie Nizam’s hands together tightly, and then, seeing how much rope they have left, they tie his feet as well.

“Now what?” Tamina asks.

“Now we take him up there,” Dastan says, pointing at the bright sunlight pouring in through the hole some hundreds of feet above their heads.

“But we don’t know what’s up there,” Tamina points out.

Dastan sighs. “Hopefully my brothers have convinced my father and will be there to help us. Or if not, they imprison me and then my brothers come to my aid. But either way, I don’t see that we have much of a choice. Whoever was helping with the digging, and with lowering my uncle into this hole, will eventually get curious if they hear nothing from him, and the last thing we need is a lot of Persian soldiers poking around the Sand Glass. It’s a gamble we have to take.”

The look on Tamina’s face tells Dastan exactly what she thinks of the prospect of the Persian army discovering the Sand Glass, and with no further argument she helps get Nizam’s unconscious body onto the platform. There’s barely enough room on there for three people, especially when one of those people is sprawled across the floor.

Examining the contraption, Dastan sees a strong, sturdy rope attached to each corner, ascending up to the surface above them. Alongside one of them runs a fifth rope, far too thin to be for support. Dastan has a good guess of what it’s for, but before he pulls it he turns to Tamina. “Are you ready?” he asks. “Is the dagger hidden well?”

She nods, and he tugs on the rope. Apparently his guess as to its purpose was a good one, because almost immediately the platform begins to ascend.

The trip up to the surface is a slow one, giving Dastan plenty of time to examine Tamina. She keeps patting her side—that must be where the dagger is now—with an expression of relief, shock, and disbelief on her face, and he can’t help smiling a little, although he fears that it comes off a little tired and sad.

It’s not long before she notices his watching, and she glances at him a few times, and then speaks. “You used the dagger, didn’t you?”

He raises his eyebrows.

“You knew the dagger would be safe when Nizam dropped it,” she points out. “And now you keep staring at me. What happened?”

Dastan sighs and drags his hand down his face, as though he can wipe away the sight of her tumbling over the edge from his eyes. Turns out he can’t. “Let’s just say, now we know you mean it when you say you’d die to protect this dagger.”

Tamina stares at him, then turns away, and they lapse into silence. And Dastan spends the rest of the ride pretending he’s not constantly checking Tamina’s throat, fervently reminding himself that that version of events was undone, and that in this version of events, Nizam’s knife never drew blood there.

o.o.o

The platform finally reaches the surface and brings them out into the blinding sunlight.

“Prince Dastan!” exclaims a voice nearby, sounding more surprised than angry, and for a moment Dastan dares to hope that all is well up here. But almost immediately another voice yells “Traitor!” and Dastan’s vision clears enough to see four soldiers rushing toward them.

The platform is suspended in the mouth of a hole in the ground; around the edge are two plank walkways. A large wheel, like a water wheel, stands nearby, and based on the ropes that run between it and the platform, it seems to control how Nizam was raised and lowered. One of the soldiers grabs Tamina by the arm and pulls her onto one of the plank walkways; he’s gentle with her, though, clearly uncertain just how much suspicion she is under.

Another soldier—Dastan distantly recognizes him as a captain, and realizes he must be in charge of the men here—points his sword right at Dastan. “Drop your weapons!” he commands, and that’s when Dastan realizes they’ve timed this terribly; his brothers and father are clearly not here yet. He might be able to fight his way out of this, but he doesn’t know that he could bring Tamina with him, and anyway running away got him into this mess in the first place. With a sigh, he obediently drops his sword on the platform and puts his hands submissively up in the air. The captain gestures with his sword, making Dastan climb off the platform and join him on the plank walkway across the hole from Tamina. When Dastan does, the third soldier wrestles his arms behind his back, holding them in a firm grip, and the captain points his sword threateningly at him.

The fourth soldier approaches Nizam and checks him for a pulse. “He still breathes!” the man calls out.

“He is dangerous,” Dastan insists. “My brothers can explain everything. Can someone please send for them?” But no one moves, and in the eyes of the crowd of soldiers gathered around them, he sees nothing but anger and contempt.

His eyes have adjusted well enough now to see that they’re in a large open space. Based on the walls he can see not far off and the pieces of what appears to have once been a fountain, he thinks they’re in a garden—perhaps one of the gardens on the palace grounds, given that he can see the palace walls not too far away. But any beauty the garden used to possess has been destroyed by Nizam’s search; the ground is all dust and dirt, and the place is filled with digging equipment, scrap wood, canvas and soldiers. And unlike the digging equipment or the scrap wood, the number of soldiers seems to be increasing, as murmurs run through the crowd that the traitor prince has been apprehended. Still, if all goes well, he’ll be glad to have that many soldiers around.

“Dastan,” says the captain with his sword still trained on his throat, “you are under arrest for the attempted murder of the king.”

“Fine,” says Dastan. “But before you do anything, please fetch my brothers. They should be with my father now. They can explain everything.”

Again there is no response, and Dastan raises his voice so it carries to the far edges of the yard. “Please, someone get my brothers!” He thinks he hears footsteps running away in response, but he doesn’t see anyone move, so maybe he imagined it.

“Untie him!” the captain barks at the soldier still kneeling beside Nizam, and Nizam seems to stir a little.

“Do not untie him!” Dastan barks back, hoping the man will instinctively obey a command from his prince.

And for the briefest moment it works, the soldier looking up at Dastan in surprise, until he shakes his head and starts examining the ropes binding Nizam.

“Please,” Tamina says in those carefully cultivated mellifluous tones she uses when she wants to sound like a princess, “there is much going on here that you do not yet understand. Untying him now could be incredibly dangerous for all of us.” She sounds very convincingly regal and elegant and beseeching, but in the end has no more effect than Dastan did. Apparently being the wife of the royal traitor gets you very little influence among the army.

The soldier cuts the ropes away from Nizam’s feet, and this time he definitely stirs.

Dastan catches Tamina’s eye across the hole—she looks about as despairing as he does—then casts another desperate glance in the direction of the palace. Still no movement from that quarter.

“If someone could find my brothers,” he begins again, and that’s when Nizam wakes up. Sitting up, he looks around in confusion a moment, until his gaze falls on Dastan. Dastan can almost see his thoughts run across his face as he processes what’s going on.

“Well done, you have apprehended the traitor,” he says as he climbs to his feet.

The captain bows to Nizam. “What shall we do with the prisoners?”

Nizam’s response is prompt. “Have you checked Dastan for weapons?” he asks. “He is very dangerous when armed.” Clearly he means to find the dagger, and Dastan is very grateful that Tamina has it; it should buy them a little extra time.

“No sir,” says the captain, and Nizam steps off the platform and begins searching Dastan. All he finds, though, are the throwing knives he brought with him, and with a look of disgust, he drops those on the walkway and looks around.

His eyes fall on Tamina, and Dastan scowls. “Have you checked the princess yet?”

The soldiers exchange uncomfortable looks.

“Remember that she helped Dastan escape,” he points out. “She may be just as guilty and dangerous as he.”

“Our apologies,” says the captain. “We should have checked both of them.” And Nizam turns to make his way to Tamina.

“All of Persia will know what you’ve done soon,” Dastan blurts out desperately. Nizam pauses. “And they will know, as I do, just how blessed we are that Sharaman was born before you, so that we never suffered under your kingship.”

It’s a last-ditch effort to keep Nizam from finding the dagger, and to keep Tamina from the humiliation of being thoroughly and publicly searched, but it works. Nizam turns slowly, and Dastan says, so quietly that not even the soldier holding his arms can hear it, says, “It will never be you. You’ll never be king; you don’t have the heart. You will die in the shadow of a great man.”

With a look that says he’s going to relish this, Nizam wraps one hand, still pink with burns from the acid, around Dastan’s throat. “Enjoy the gutter, Dastan,” he says softly. “It’s where you’ll stay under my reign.”

And in the silence following that statement, Dastan finally, blessedly, hears what his ears have been straining for all this time:

“Nizam, stop!” cries the king.

All eyes turn to see Sharaman striding toward them from the direction of the palace, flanked by Garsiv and Tus and followed by a phalanx of soldiers. Bis follows close to Tus, and Dastan wonders if his dear friend has played a part in getting them here.

It’s amazing how quickly Nizam changes, like stepping from a dark room into bright sunlight. “Brother!” he calls out familiarly, his hand dropping from Dastan’s throat and his expression turning from one of hate to one of calm obedience. “I have apprehended the traitor. I recommend we deal with him quickly, to avoid giving him a stage for his sedition.”

“Nizam, stop,” Sharaman says firmly, his expression pained. He and his entourage come to a stop some thirty feet from Nizam; whether that’s because he fears getting too close to Nizam, or whether that’s simply where the pavement ends and the king doesn’t want to get unnecessarily dusty, Dastan doesn’t know.

Nizam looks thoroughly surprised and wounded. “Dearest brother, why such a harsh tone?”

Sharaman’s face softens. “I don’t like to do this, brother. But my sons have come with very serious accusations against you.”

Nizam truly is a master liar. “Accusations?” he asks, and if he hadn’t known better Dastan would have absolutely believed Nizam had no idea what was happening.

“They say they were attacked by Hassansins out in the desert. Hassansins that you assured me no longer existed.”

“Impossible,” says Nizam calmly. “You watched me burn their weapons and their scrolls myself, did you not?”

Sharaman hesitates, his expression torn. “And Tus says that he gave Dastan the robe that would have killed me, but that he was given it by you.”

Nizam looks appalled. “Tus was in on this plot with Dastan? How deep does this treachery run?”

“Stop, Nizam,” Sharaman commands again, looking pained. “You know I love and trust you above all others. But when all of my sons come to me with such accusations . . . what reason would they have to lie?”

“And what reason would I have to lie?” Tamina demands. “For I tell you, I too was attacked by these Hassansins. And why would I lie about such a thing? I have no interest in your family squabbles.”

Nizam looks thoroughly unconcerned. “Then perhaps someone has indeed restarted their practices. I did what I could to wipe them out, but you know as well as I, Sharaman, the desert is vast, and holds many secrets.”

“Then what do you say of the robe you gave me?” Tus demands. “There were soldiers present, who will testify that they saw you give me the robe to give to Dastan, and warn me not to touch it.”

This one seems to throw Nizam for a loop, and though he looks confident as he searches for a response, Dastan’s close enough to him to see him curling his hands into fists, in the tiniest hint of uncertainty. And glancing down at those hands gives him an idea.

“Father!” he calls out. Sharaman looks over at him, and for a moment Dastan nearly forgets to breathe; it’s the first time his father has made eye contact with him since this all started, and the look he sees there—confusion, hope, hurt, love—nearly knocks him over. His father clearly wants to believe in his innocence. And Dastan wants to help him do so. “Do you remember the events of the failed assassination?”

“Yes.”

“Could you recount them?”

Sharaman looks confused, but obediently explains, “I returned the robe to Celon, who put it on. There was a strange sound and smell, and suddenly he began screaming in pain. The Alamutian woman, Farah, pulled the robe off him just in time. We sent for healers and for you.”

Dastan nods. “Farah burned her hands grabbing the robe, did she not?”

Sharaman affirms that she did, while Nizam, clearly catching onto the thread of this questioning, curls his hands tighter into fists.

“Did my uncle Nizam touch the robe?”

“No,” Sharaman says, “Nizam was by my side the whole time. He never went near the robe.”

“Then why,” Dastan asks triumphantly, “are his hands burned?”

A murmur goes up from the crowd, and Nizam shoots a venomous look at Dastan, who ignores him. “He must have handled the robe before he gave it to Tus, and it must have been poisoned at that point.”

Sharaman’s face is a storm. “Is this true, Nizam?” he thunders.

Nizam is quiet and still a long moment, glaring at Dastan; when a tiny smile lightens his expression, it has the strange effect of making him look even more intimidating. With deliberate slowness, he turns away, and his gaze falls on . . . is it Tamina he’s looking at? And then he shrugs. “So be it,” he says, apparently talking to himself as much as anyone else. And then he puts his fingers to his lips and gives an ear-splitting whistle.

The Hassansins appear among the soldiers immediately; their hiding places must have been very good, for one moment they are not there and the next they are. Their appearance is so sudden that each takes down several soldiers before anyone has time to react.

Mayhem erupts around him. There are four Hassansins that have appeared: the one with the whip he recognizes, while the ones with the sword, the axe and the spear are new.

“To the palace!” Garsiv yells, which serves two purposes: the soldiers behind Sharaman quickly surround him and Tus and begin moving them back toward safety, and Dastan jolts out of his surprise and looks around.

Nizam has taken advantage of the chaos to run around the edge of the hole, clearly heading for Tamina, and Dastan understands his plan: if he can get the dagger from Tamina and return to the Sand Glass chamber while the army is still distracted with the Hassansins, he can still salvage his plan.

In one elegant movement, Dastan dives to pick up his throwing knives, turns the dive into a roll and the roll into a jump that gets him back on his feet. With a flick of his wrist, he sends the knife flying across the hole, where it buries itself in Nizam’s shoulder. This stops Nizam’s movement as he turns to glare at Dastan, pulls the knife from his shoulder, and tucks it away somewhere in his robes.

“Stop him!” Dastan commands, pointing, and this time the soldiers obey.

This leaves both him and Tamina unguarded, but before he can take more than a single step toward her, he hears the distinctive sound of a sword hitting flesh, several times in quick succession. He turns and sees the black robe and armor of the sword-wielding Hassansin, who is striding purposefully toward him and taking down any soldier who gets in his way, and he curses under his breath and scrambles to pick up his dropped sword and then to get to Tamina. The Hassansin moves impossibly quickly, and Dastan barely has time to get in front of his wife and get his sword up to parry before the first swing of the Hassansin’s blade. The impact rattles his bones and sends bolts of pain up his already-injured sword arm.

Dastan doesn’t know how he’s going to fight the Hassansin and protect Tamina at the same time. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to, because dodging through the fighting soldiers to reach his side is faithful Bis, coming to help.

“Bis!” Dastan yells. “Tamina!”

Bis doesn’t need any more explanation than that; he vaults over a railing, grabs Tamina’s arm, and rushes her away into the crowd. And Dastan breathes a sigh of relief. Bis is a good fighter, and he will do everything he can to keep Tamina safe. And Tamina will have the sense to tell him that they must stay away from Nizam, who has disappeared somewhere into the melee. Dastan must trust the both of them to stay safe, s ohe can focus on this fight.

He’d thought the Hassansin with the snakes was good with the sword, but he sees now the man had nothing on this Hassansin. His sword work is precise and powerful, his movements relentless, and it’s all Dastan can do to stay alive. He’s helped by a few things, though: they’re surrounded by railings and ropes, and he can use his climbing skills in ways this Hassansin can’t; and more importantly, he’s suddenly feeling very motivated. Nizam has tipped his hand; everyone knows he’s the real traitor now, and if Dastan survives this, he can be welcomed back into the loving arms of his family.

On they fight, Dastan barely keeping one step ahead of his opponent, focused more on survival than winning, until finally the Hassansin disarms him. He’s looking around desperately for somewhere to climb to, when suddenly from somewhere behind the Hassansin, a sword swings out and catches him just under the ear, where he isn’t armored. The sword goes deep, sending blood pouring down the Hassansin’s neck, and he staggers a moment, looking shocked. Then he falls to the ground, lifeless, revealing a grinning Garsiv standing behind him.

Dastan’s shoulders slump in relief. “I softened him up for you,” he informs his brother.

Garsiv just laughs. “You believe that, if it helps you sleep at night.”

The two princes take a moment to survey the scene. The Hassansin with the spear has already fallen, and the one with the axe is contending with a massive knot of Persian soldiers; it seems the reinforcements that the other half of the cavalry went to fetch have arrived. But the Hassansin with the whip has somehow gotten between the king and the palace, cutting off his retreat.

Garsiv seems to see this in the same moment Dastan does, because he calls out “To Father!” and leads the way to the king’s defense.

The Hassansin with the whip has proved himself to be a formidable foe; the ground around him is littered with the dead and wounded, and the soldiers surrounding Sharaman and Tus have decreased in number. Dastan and Garsiv creep as close as they can without being seen, and then Dastan finds his other throwing knife and hands it to his brother; Garsiv always was the better aim of the two of them.

And in this case, Garsiv’s aim is perfect: the knife strikes the Hassansin in his unarmored hand, and the man cries out in pain and drops the whip. Without that weapon, the man is no threat at all, and Garsiv disposes of him quickly.

A few moments after that Hassansin falls, a cheer comes up from nearby; the Hassansin with the axe has fallen as well. That’s all of them, and Dastan turns his attention to Nizam and Tamina. Did she get away? Did he find her?

Apparently he did not, because Dalir is leading Nizam to face the king at swordpoint; the furious look in his uncle’s eyes tells Dastan all he needs to know about whether the dagger is safe.

A soldier approaches with manacles, but when he reaches out, Nizam twists away. Sharaman lifts a hand to tell the soldier to stand down, clearly wanting to spare Nizam the indignity of being in shackles as long as possible.

The crowd falls silent as the brothers stare each other down. “Nizam, how could you?” Sharaman demands brokenly.

“Quite easily,” Nizam says glibly.

“I have treated you as my closest, most trusted friend and advisor. I have given you everything. I thought . . . why would you do this?”

Nizam shrugs, as though this conversation bores him. “I served you faithfully for many years,” he said. “I thought I was due for a promotion.”

The king’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “How long have you . . .”

Dastan, who has stepped closer to get a better view of things, gets the distinct impression that Nizam is enjoying watching Sharaman’s heart break. “Oh, for years,” he says with quiet menace in his tone.

Sharaman draws himself up taller. “Do you have anything you wish to say before we imprison you?”

Nizam examines him a moment. “There is one thing I’d like to do,” he says, and reaches into his robes.

Dastan knows instinctively what his uncle is going for: the throwing knife he pulled out of his own shoulder just a few minutes ago. He’s seen how well and how quickly his uncle throws; there’s no time to shout a warning and hope Sharaman understands and gets out of the way in time.

So without further thought or deliberation, Dastan runs.

There are four collisions in quick succession: Dastan colliding with Sharaman to push him out of the way, the knife colliding with Dastan’s side, and then both Sharaman and Dastan colliding with the ground.

“Dastan!” Sharaman cries out in horror, scrambling back to his son’s side.

Through the cloud of pain in his mind, Dastan sees Nizam pick up a sword from a fallen soldier and stride toward the king. There’s no chance he’ll manage anything now, not with everyone out for his blood, and Dastan understands: Nizam would rather die than rot in jail for this.

And Tus obliges: he steps out of the crowd of soldiers and runs his sword through his uncle’s stomach. But he’s never truly had the stomach for killing—and certainly not for killing relatives—and he looks stricken as Nizam falls to the ground.

“We need to get Dastan to the healers!” Garsiv yells, but Dastan hardly notices, because Tamina has finally appeared from the crowd.

“Dastan!” she gasps, and kneels by his side, not seeming to notice or care that she is kneeling in a puddle of his blood.

He can’t ask her about the dagger here, so instead he raises his eyebrows in question, and she gives him the tiniest nod and smile. He lets his head drop back down to the ground, dizzy with relief and blood loss. It’s over. It’s finally over.

And then his eyes fly open wide, a sharp note of panic clearing out his fuzzy mind for a moment. “Tamina!” he manages to say, as Garsiv and a few other soldiers lift him onto a board in order to take him to the healers.

She presses forward and takes his hand in hers.

“Please don’t leave,” he says, his voice weak, his mind growing blanker by the second.

She looks surprised.

“Please don’t leave,” he repeats, as he feels the board he’s on being lifted. “Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave.”

For all he knows, he’s still saying it as he slips into unconsciousness.

o.o.o


	13. Chapter 13

o.o.o

Dastan awakes with the sense that he has been asleep for a long time. Slowly his eyes drift open, then immediately squeeze shut against the blinding brightness that meets them. So instead he lies quietly and takes stock of his situation. He’s lying on a comfortable bed with very soft sheets; his side is bandaged up tightly; he can hear someone breathing nearby.

The last two make him open his eyes again, this time just a slit, and as he adjusts to the brightness of the room, memories wash over him: he is exonerated, the dagger is safe, Nizam is dead. As the brightness dims to a bearable level, he sees it comes from a mix of very white walls and bright sunshine pouring in through an open window; based on the color scheme and the window shape, he assumes he’s in the Alamutian palace. And when he manages to turn his head, he sees the other person in the room is his father, his brow furrowed in concentration as he reads a scroll he has open on his lap.

When he sees his son move, however, Sharaman rolls up the scroll and leans forward, a relieved smile warming his face. “My son,” he says softly, “it is very good to see you awake.” He takes a moment to call for a servant and inform him of Dastan's waking, then returns his attention to his son. He takes Dastan’s hand in his, something he hasn’t done in many years, and Dastan basks in the glow of being back in his father’s good graces.

“How long have I been out?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“Nearly two days.” Sharaman takes a pitcher off a side table and pours Dastan a cup of water, then helps him prop himself up against the pillows and headboard enough to drink from it. “Your injuries were considerable, but the healers feel confident you will make a full recovery.” His eyes soften. “I owe you my life, Dastan. I have been torn these past two days between wanting to thank you with all my heart and scold you for taking such a risk. The life of a king is important indeed, but you are my son, and I have no desire to bury you to save myself.”

“The risk was worth it,” Dastan says, his words still a little slow with sleep. “Besides, I had my side facing Nizam as I ran, and I’d hoped to time it so that the knife hit my shoulder; far better that than hitting you in the chest. It didn’t work exactly as planned, but . . .”

“Ah,” says Sharaman with a smile, “so at least you did have a plan. Still, as grateful as I am, I hope you will be a little more careful in the future. Recall, you have a wife now.”

His wife! Memory strikes him like a slap to the face, and all his worries from the last time he was awake flood back to him. “Tamina!” he gasps, fully awake now. “Where is she? Is she still in the palace?”

Sharaman chuckles, and Dastan’s tense muscles relax a little. “She’s here,” he reassures his son. “She’s been running herself quite ragged the last few days trying to get her kingdom back in order. Been in to check on you a time or two as well.” Dastan lets himself sag fully back against the pillows, breathing a sigh of relief, and Sharaman grins at him. “Exactly where was it you were so convinced she was going to go to?”

Dastan sputters for a moment, hemming and hawing, unable to think of an answer that doesn’t give far too much away, but fortunately his father seems to find it amusing rather than suspicious. “You were quite worried about your princess, it seems,” he observes as the door to the room opens.

“I told you,” says Garsiv, walking in with Tus, “he is almost disgustingly enamored of her.” But his mocking words are belied by his eyes, warm with amusement, and when he seats himself next to the bed, he claps Dastan briefly on his good shoulder. “Welcome back to the land of the living, little brother.”

Tus takes a seat nearby. “It is good to see you awake. You had us worried for a while.”

“It is good to be awake,” Dastan says, electing to ignore Garsiv’s opening comment. “What have I missed?”

Tus sighs. “Interrogations, mostly. We have detained everyone close to Nizam, and are ascertaining whether any of them knew what he was up to.”

The mention of their treacherous uncle casts a pall over the room, and after a moment Sharaman sighs and leans forward. “I suppose I have avoided the topic long enough. We do need to discuss what happened, if you have the energy, Dastan. Your brothers have given me their version of events, but I would like to hear yours as well.”

This is a conversation that would be easier to have from a less recumbent situation, so Dastan slowly forces himself into a sitting position. The way that Garsiv promptly leans forward and helps adjust the pillows behind him tells Dastan a great deal about just how worried his brother actually was.

Then with a sigh, he begins. He tells of Tus giving him the robe, and of being accused of the assassination attempt. He has to fib a little when he explains why he and Tamina fled the wedding feast, as he can hardly say that it was all Tamina’s doing so that she could get the dagger; luckily his claims that they both feared the furious crowd would not give them a chance for a fair trial seem to convince the king. He tells of suspecting Tus of having poisoned the robe, and riding to Lambsar to convince him. He tells of the confrontation with his brothers, when they realized that their uncle lay at the heart of every mystery facing them, and he tells of the Hassansin attack confirming their suspicions. He tells of the second Hassansin attack when he went to find Tamina, and then of returning to Alamut and going to confront Nizam.

Here he fibs again, just a little, and says simply that they found Nizam in an underground cavern, where he was searching for the forges, and confronted him there. And then he hesitates.

“What is it?” Sharaman asks.

“Nizam . . .” Dastan begins.

Understanding fills the king’s eyes. “Do not worry about offending or hurting me. I would rather know the truth.”

Dastan can sympathize with that feeling. “I asked him how he could turn on us; I said we were his family. And he said . . . ‘And my curse.’”

Tus looks dumbfounded, Garsiv murderous, and Sharaman heartbroken. Dastan decides it’d be prudent to move on quickly. “He also had a few things to say about what he thought of bringing a street rat into the palace. I decided we should get him back to the surface, so I knocked him unconscious and tied him up, and we returned to that yard you saw us in, hoping that you’d already be there. You weren’t, and the soldiers, thinking they were being helpful, untied him and placed me under arrest. And you saw what happened next.”

Sharaman nods heavily, leaning back in his chair. “When I return to Nasaf, I shall have to spend a great deal of time pondering this, trying to understand how I could have missed such darkness and resentment in my own brother.” He stares at the edge of Dastan’s bed in a way that says he doesn’t really see it, and he suddenly looks very, very old. “It seems that the bond between brothers is no longer the sword that defends our empire.”

“It is, Father!” Tus insists, leaning forward. “We were mistaken about Nizam’s feelings for us. But we still love you, and each other, and we would never do what Nizam did.”

Dastan nods earnestly. “Tus is right. Our loyalty to each other remains unchanged.”

Even Garsiv, never one to gush, gets in on the action. “I would die for either of my brothers, or for you. And I know they feel the same.” He smiles a little. “Dastan very nearly proved it recently.”

“Let us make a promise, right now, to never keep the sorts of secrets that led to tragedy with Nizam,” says Tus. “Let us promise that if ever we have hard feelings toward each other, we will talk about them, rather than letting them fester and turn us against each other.”

He turns his gaze on Dastan, who nods. “I promise.”

Then he looks at Garsiv, who smirks. “When have I ever been afraid to tell you exactly what I think?” Tus raises his eyebrows and Garsiv chuckles. “Fine, I promise.”

“You see, Father?” Tus asks. “We love each other still, and we are determined to root out any resentment before it has a chance to destroy our bond. Brotherhood is still the sword that defends our empire.”

Sharaman looks at his oldest for a moment, and then smiles. “You will make a fine king someday, my boy.” Tus glows with pleasure as the king looks at his other sons. “And with you two to aid him, I have no doubt the empire will flourish.”

All four royals smile at each other, and then Garsiv stands decisively. “I hate to break up this moment, but Tus and I need to be on our way.”

“Where are you going?” Dastan asks.

“Off to find the Hassansins’ lair,” Tus explains. “We must ensure that the ones we defeated made up their entire order.”

“And where . . .”

“We know where their old lair was,” Garsiv explains, “and that failing, we have made a list of all our uncle’s known land holdings, plus his allies and friends.”

Worry pierces through Dastan, but he knows he’s in no state to travel; he can’t go with them. “Be careful,” he says. “And good luck.”

His brothers clap him on his good shoulder and bid him farewell. As they leave, a healer comes in, an older woman Dastan doesn’t recognize, who checks his bandage and his wound and tells him that he’s healing well and that she’ll send him up something to eat soon. Then she leaves, and Dastan and Sharaman are alone again.

“Shall I leave you to your rest?” the king asks Dastan kindly, but Dastan shakes his head.

“Actually, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Sharaman agrees and leans forward attentively.

“It’s Princess Tamina,” Dastan says, then hesitates. “We have done her a great wrong.”

Surprise washes over Sharaman’s face.

“By forcing her into this marriage and making her leave Alamut, we have wronged her,” Dastan elaborates.

“We did not force her into this marriage,” Sharaman objects, but Dastan shakes his head.

“We asked her consent, but with the Persian army surrounding her walls and the Persian guards in her palace, was there ever a chance she was going to say no? Or do anything that might anger the people who held the safety of her city in their hands?”

It is clear from his expression that Sharaman has never thought about this. “That is . . . an interesting notion, my son.”

“It is more than that,” Dastan insists. “Father, you have always respected Alamut as a holy city, have you not?”

Sharaman nods.

“And from what you have said, I believe that in folding it into our empire, you intended to give it a high degree of autonomy, did you not?”

“That is true,” Sharaman agrees.

“Then that essentially makes Tamina an allied monarch of the Persian empire. We wouldn’t dream of forcing an allied foreign king to leave his kingdom and live in Nasaf under the thumb of the royal family. But that is exactly what we have done to Tamina. We have disrespected her position and authority simply because she is a pretty woman.”

There is a long moment of surprised silence, and then the king confesses, “I have never considered the matter in this light.” He ponders a few moments longer, then says heavily, “There may be some merit in what you’re saying. But what would we do to make amends?”

Dastan’s reply is prompt. “Tamina needs to stay in Alamut. She has important political and religious duties and it would be dishonorable of us to force her away from them for our own benefit.”

Sharaman raises his eyebrows. “And you?”

This is the part Dastan doesn’t like thinking about as much. “When we were out in the desert, we discussed divorce,” he says. “I don’t know what Alamutian laws say on the subject, but according to Persian laws it ought to be easy enough. Although I don’t know how the marriage contract we signed might complicate things.”

“It would complicate things a little,” Sharaman agreed, “but it’s nothing that can’t be dealt with.” He leans back in his chair and gives Dastan a long, considering look that leaves the prince feeling very exposed. “This is what you want?”

Dastan shrugs uncomfortably. “I believe this is the way it has to be.” What he wants is entirely out of his reach. But if he can’t have Tamina, at least he can give her what she wants.

“It might not reflect well on you among certain circles,” Sharaman warns. “And it might mean that you never see Tamina again. It likely means that she will marry someone else. Are you comfortable with that?”

Dastan distantly notices that he has balled his hands into fists. “She deserves to marry someone of her own choosing,” he says, and means it.

Sharaman gives him that inscrutable look he gets when he is thinking over a great many things and keeping them all secret. “You would release her, despite the pain it would bring you, because you think it’s what’s best for her?”

Dastan looks down and tries to think of how to answer.

“You know,” Sharaman smiles gently, “I thought when I suggested the marriage that you two would end up very well suited to each other, but I never expected you to fall so much in love with her so quickly.”

It’s the first time Dastan’s connected the word “love” to how he feels about Tamina, and it hits him like a runaway cart. He doesn’t have much experience with falling love, but he feels fairly certain that if what he feels for her isn’t quite love yet, it’s in a fair way to become so soon.

Sharaman distracts him from his reverie. “Well," he says, slapping his hand down on the bed beside Dastan, "if you want to divorce her, I will support you in this and help you make all the arrangements for breaking the marriage contract.”

It’s what Dastan wanted, and he’s never been so sorry to get his way in his life.

The king isn’t finished yet, however. “But there may be an alternative,” he says with a small smile, and the tiny spark of hope that Dastan had thought was dead kindles back into life.

“Oh?”

“Kosh is a worsening problem,” Sharaman says, and something about his tone reminds Dastan of a hundred war councils he's attended with his father in the past, and makes him smile. “And there are other threats out here in the west that will rise to fill the void once Kosh has been taken care of. I have long been considering having a larger military presence in this part of the empire, and the attack on Lambsar has only made me more convinced of its necessity.”

Dastan blinks. “A larger—”

“I would like you to accept command of these forces,” Sharaman says formally. “I had been considering you for the position before the assassination attempt, knowing that you would do an excellent job. And now . . .”

Still he can’t quite wrap his head around it. “A military presence?”

Sharaman nods. “Not in Alamut itself; I don’t think your princess would take very well to have a garrison within her walls. So perhaps a fortress, much larger than Lambsar, somewhere nearby. The other end of the valley, perhaps; it’s a very defensible position. Provided, of course, that Tamina agrees to the alliance with Persia and doesn’t mind us being so close by.” He smiles at his son. “What do you say? ‘Prince Dastan of Persia, general of the armies of the west.’ Sounds rather good, I’d say.”

For a moment Dastan can do nothing but stare as his thoughts rattle about in his mind. To stay in Alamut with Tamina . . .

To stay in Alamut. “It is a tempting offer, Father. But what about you? What about my brothers? After all you have done for me . . .”

Sharaman smiles kindly and leans forward. “I did not take you in so that you would feel obligated to pay me back. But even if I had, the role I ask you to fill here is a vital one. Someone from Persia needs to do it. And I trust you, and have faith in your military prowess. And as for seeing your family, you would still need to travel to Nasaf often, to counsel with your brothers on military affairs. And I wouldn’t mind spending more time here in the future, and enjoying Alamut’s many beauties.”

Still Dastan’s stomach churns. “I can’t abandon my family.”

“You would not be; you would be fulfilling an assignment I gave you.” The king pauses, clearly looking for words. “I know this is a difficult idea to process, given that you had probably planned to live the rest of your days in Nasaf, with me and your brothers. But Dastan, this is what children do: they grow up and they move on. And in your case, moving on may mean moving to a different city. But in a way that keeps you still in close contact with us and gives you a chance to serve your empire, all while staying with the woman you love.” He smiles. “If you choose to stay in Nasaf, I will of course be very happy to have you with me. But this position in Alamut could be a blessing for you, Dastan. Consider it seriously.” And then he takes Dastan’s hand once more in his and squeezes it. “And remember that no matter what you choose, you will always be my son and I will always love you.”

The churning in Dastan’s stomach has slowly vanished over the course of his father’s speech, leaving him suddenly feel hopeful. To stay in Alamut with Tamina, but also to protect the empire and serve his father . . . “I will consider it, Father.”

“Of course, it all depends on whether your princess wants to keep you,” his father chuckles, and Dastan manages a smile.

And with that wild hope still pounding in his chest, he barely knows how to react when the door opens and in comes Tamina. She is dressed as he first saw her—crystals in her hair, kohl around her eyes, pristine white dress—and his heart turns over in his chest, because she is impossibly beautiful.

(Still, he can’t help thinking to himself, she’s stunning like this, but he finds her equally beautiful when she’s astride a horse, dressed in the dusty layers of a desert traveler, looking entirely too pleased with herself for some impudent remark she’s made.)

“King Sharaman,” she says formally, “and Prince Dastan, so good to see you awake.” And Dastan’s heart sinks. This is Tamina the diplomat, Tamina the politician—a version of her that he hasn’t seen in awhile. And he wonders why he’s seeing her now; after nearly dying, he supposes he’d expected a warmer hello.

Sharaman doesn’t seem to notice, being more familiar with this version of her than with any other. “Princess Tamina, how good of you to join us,” he says. “Especially given how busy you have been lately, dealing with all that has transpired.”

She inclines her head gracefully in acknowledgment. “And how do you fare, Sharaman?” she asks, and Dastan fancies he can see genuine concern in her eyes.

Sharaman doesn’t need her to explain what she means; perhaps this is a continuation of a conversation they’ve had in the past. “Working through it,” he says with weariness in his voice. “But my older sons are leaving to seek out the Hassansin lair, and I hope we shall be able to put all of this behind us.” He hesitates. “And on that subject, Princess, I have a question I would ask you, if you do not mind.”

Tamina voices her assent, but Sharaman glances at Dastan. “The answer to this question may be a private affair; would you rather speak of it somewhere we are alone?”

Amusement touches Tamina’s face, just for a moment; Dastan wonders if his father even sees it. “I have come to trust your son’s discretion implicitly,” she says. “Anything you would say, you can say in front of him.” And Dastan can’t help smiling a bit.

Sharaman nods. “It is about the invasion of your city,” he says. “Tus has interviewed the spy who first brought to his attention the weapons that precipitated our attack, and the spy has admitted that Nizam paid him to present forgeries.”

Dastan can only imagine how hard Tamina is working not to look smug. “I am pleased to hear you finally see that we are entirely innocent in all this,” she says evenly.

“And we will continue to make reparations,” he assures her. “So the invasion, in addition to being executed under false pretenses, seems somehow to have been part of my brother’s plan to kill me and my family and take the throne. And my question is, why? Why not undertake this in Nasaf, where he had more resources, and easier access to my grandchildren, who he’d have also had to take out in order to ascend the throne?”

“A very good question,” says Tamina gravely, glancing briefly down at Dastan, and then back at the king, “and one I have considered a great deal myself. I believe I have an answer, based on things that Nizam said to us when we confronted him, but you must understand that this is partially mere speculation.”

Sharaman nods.

“Alamut is an ancient city,” Tamina begins, “and our great age, combined with our secretive religion, has given rise to a number of tales and rumors about the mysteries that must be held within our walls. No doubt you have heard a few yourself, in your time.”

Again the king nods.

“One seems to have reached the ears of your brother: that there was within Alamut a magical artifact that would give him the power to destroy you.” She shrugs delicately. “I do not know why a man as renowned for intelligence as your brother should have taken such a fanciful tale so seriously, but then he had been working with Hassansins for many years, and had no doubt seen how their abilities seemed nearly supernatural. Perhaps that made him more willing to accept the notion.”

“So that is why he attacked your city,” Sharaman says heavily. “To find this item and use it to destroy me when I came to investigate the invasion.”

A small smile touches her face. “Your brother is not the first treasure hunter to come to Alamut in search of such an item, but he is the first to come with the Persian army at his back.”

Her humor seems to amuse Sharaman out of his dark mood. “Would I be correct in assuming this fanciful tale is unfounded?” he asks with a smile that says he’s sure he already knows the answer.

“I know every corner of this city,” she says confidently. “And I can assure you, there is nothing here that would have given Nizam what he wanted.”

And Dastan fights down a grin at Tamina’s careful phrasing; nothing she’s said has technically been a lie.

“I thank you for your information,” Sharaman says formally. “And I apologize again for the trouble we’ve caused you. I assure you we will make reparations.” He hesitates. “We will undoubtedly have several councils between our two kingdoms in the days to come, to determine how to proceed with future relations between us. I hope you will consider accepting our hand of friendship, and being henceforth an ally of Persia.”

“There is indeed a great deal to consider,” Tamina says, and glances again at Dastan. “But for the moment, if you are serious about making reparations, I do have a favor I must ask of you.”

“If it is in my power, it would be an honor to aid you,” Sharaman assures her.

Tamina nods, then hesitates. Again she glances at Dastan, who wonders what she’s about to say, then seems to make up her mind. “What I’m about to tell you is a matter of the utmost secrecy and discretion. I would prefer not to speak of it to any outsider, but circumstances have forced my hand. I have heard tales of your legendary respect for the faith of others, and your son considers you a very good man. So I have decided to trust you. I pray I will not come to regret my decision.”

Sharaman sits up very straight. “You won’t,” he reassures her.

She takes a deep breath, while Dastan stares. She can’t possibly be about to tell his father about—

She’s not. “What did Dastan tell you about the cave where we confronted Nizam?”

Sharaman looks surprised. “Absolutely nothing, other than that it was a cave.”

She smiles a little. “Your son is being very good in trying to protect my faith's secrets. It was in fact not simply an empty cave; it is the location of our oldest and most sacred shrine. The shrine around which the city was built, actually.”

Again, not quite a lie.

“Nizam’s search for forges was, in fact, a search for this shrine, for he had become convinced that it was there he would find the magical artifact that would help him destroy you.”

Sharaman’s brow furrows. “That hole he dug—that was very nearly the first place he looked. Was that simply a lucky guess?”

At that, Tamina looks suddenly very weary. “He had help.” She hesitates, and when she speaks again, it’s Dastan she’s looking at, not Sharaman. “One of my people was helping see to the dead soldiers after the Hassansin battle, and he recognized the body of one of the soldiers who had been overseeing the dig. He was one of ours. A priest of our temple.”

Dastan scowls. “And he told Nizam where to search?”

Tamina nods. “He was one of the lower priests, so he was never given the shrine’s location, but he was able to make an educated guess from watching the upper priesthood’s comings and goings. He disappeared during the invasion; we thought he’d fled for safety, but apparently he went to Nizam’s side. Perhaps Nizam had offered him protection, as well as money.” Her lips tighten into a thin line. “He still had our sacred symbols painted on his hands when he died. This is a betrayal of the worst kind.”

She briefly looks so distraught that Dastan very nearly reaches out a comforting hand.

“That is grave news indeed,” says Sharaman.

Tamina nods. “We shall have to do a thorough investigation into the matter, and into any more possible corruption in the priesthood.” A sigh, and then: “But back to the matter at hand. The shrine is the most sacred and secret spot in Alamut; only a handful of people are supposed to even know of its existence.”

Sharaman seems to grasp all the implications of this. “And now there is a massive hole leading right down to it.”

“We cannot simply refill it, as it opens onto a cavern,” Tamina says. “We shall have to come up with a way to cover it. And in the meantime . . .”

“In the meantime you don’t want someone uninitiated to get curious about Nizam was digging for.”

“Precisely,” Tamina says in tones of relief. “And its appearance is such that anyone who saw would undoubtedly be curious, should they catch even a glimpse.”

“What is it you need from me?” the king asks.

“My people have been keeping a careful eye on it since the battle,” she says. “And luckily the Persian soldiers in the area have mostly been occupied with seeing to the bodies of the fallen. We’d intended to start our own cleanup today, once the last of the fallen soldiers were gone. But this morning I received a report that a company of Persian soldiers have started cleaning the area and disassembling all the digging equipment. A kindly meant gesture, surely, but one I would rather was undertaken by persons of my own choosing. In case someone should decide to investigate the massive hole that Nizam worked so hard to dig.”

“So you would like me to have that company of soldiers removed?”

“If you could assign all of your soldiers to work on fortifying the city walls,” she says, “it would clear out that area without arousing any suspicion. Whereas I fear that if I demanded they clear out, I would be ignored, having no authority over the army. And even worse, people would wonder what I was trying to hide. It is of the utmost importance that as few people as possible ever learn what the Persian army was standing on top of.”

As Dastan had known he would, Sharaman acquiesces immediately to her request. “Of course,” he says kindly. “I would be pleased to provide aid in this way. And you may rely on my discretion in this matter; I understand very well the need for certain religious matters to remain sacred and not widely publicized. In fact, I will go issue the order now.”

Tamina’s upright postures relaxes a little, and Dastan can read the heartfelt relief in her eyes. “You are extremely good. And if I may make one more request of your kindness: when the order has been given, could you have my priestess Farah informed? She will be overseeing the repairs to that garden.”

“I will inform her myself.” Sharaman smiles at her, and then his son, and then rises to go. “My son, I am pleased to see you awake. And Princess Tamina . . .” He hesitates. “I am sorry that we met under these circumstances, but I hope it leads to a very sincere friendship between our two crowns . . . and to a closer connection between our two families.”

With that he leaves the room, but Dastan only has a few seconds to feel embarrassed at his father’s unsubtle final words, because now he and Tamina are alone and he is suddenly nearly overwhelmed by the sea of relief, barely kept at bay these last few minutes, that now threatens to engulf him.

“You stayed,” he whispers, looking at Tamina, who’s still sitting beside his bed and looking at the door the king just exited through.

She turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “I promised, didn’t I?” And then her expression softens into a gently teasing smile. “Besides, I could hardly do otherwise after you begged me so fervently in front of half the Persian army.”

Dastan refuses to be embarrassed about that; if it kept her around, then he is proud of what he did.

But then her smile dims. “But you know it’s still in danger, Dastan. We have saved the world this time, but that might not always be the case, especially now that the invasion has proven that our walls are vulnerable. The sensible thing is still for me to return it to the stone.”

“The dagger is safe,” he insists, fighting to keep his voice level. “My uncle is dead, and my brothers are riding out now to ensure that the Hassansins are entirely wiped out. We are repairing your walls to be stronger than ever, and if you accept my father’s offer of alliance, the Persian army can protect Alamut.” He hesitates. “Which I think you know, given that you’re still trying to protect the Sand Glass. There’d be no need to do that if you’d absolutely decided to destroy the dagger.”

She smiles a little. “I must admit," she confesses, "I’ve been hoping to be convinced we can keep it safe.” She tilts her head curiously at him. “I’ve been thinking about what happened at the Sand Glass—you said I died to protect the dagger, correct?”

He winces at the memory, and nods. “You insisted, several times, that I allow you to die. And then Nizam . . .”

She nods too, her expression thoughtful, and he takes a moment to be pleased that the longer she’s in his company, the more she drops the Tamina the Diplomat persona, and acts like the Tamina he came to know in the desert; perhaps she was simply being formal around his father. “I have been worrying that my hesitance to take the dagger to the secret temple means my faith isn’t strong enough. But clearly it was strong enough to make the necessary sacrifices for the dagger. So perhaps my willingness to be convinced we can keep it safe is not cowardice or doubt, but just common sense.”

“It is,” he says, injecting all the confidence he can muster into his voice. “The dagger can be kept safe.” He hesitates. “In large part because the dagger will still have its fiercest defender: you.” This is the moment he lays it all on the line, and he finds himself taking a deep breath. “I know our marriage contract says you must come to Nasaf, but I think you should stay in Alamut.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“Clearly it’s for the best,” he says. “You have duties here, which no one else can fulfill.”

Her expression becomes suddenly very unreadable. “And you?”

He squirms a little, and wishes he wasn’t having this conversation bandaged up in a hospital bed, propped up on pillows. “We spoke of a divorce,” he reminds her. “My father has agreed that he will help us deal with the marriage contract, if we want.”

“You have already spoken of it?” Something crosses her face, something he can’t read. “That was very quick.”

He’s not sure how he’s supposed to respond to that, so he presses on. “But also . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t have to return to Nasaf.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Oh?”

He genuinely can’t tell how she feels about what he said, so he jumps into the logistics, keen to convince her it’s a good idea. “My father has decided to build a major fortress somewhere in the area, to house a larger military presence in this part of the empire—to deal with Kosh and other similar threats. If you agree to the alliance with Persia, he intends to build it at the other end of this valley. This would be very good for Alamut, to have the Persian army so nearby in case of another attempt on the dagger.”

“And you would . . .”

“Take command of the fortress, and our military forces in this part of the empire.”

She nods a bit hesitantly, her expression still unreadable. “So you would be staying in order to see to your military duties.”

He blinks. “Yes.” That’s part of it, anyway.

“I see,” she says evenly, and he has the sense that she’s holding back something more she wants to say. “Is that all you would be doing?”

A bit confused, he says, “Well, and my duties as prince of Alamut. We’ve never really talked about what that involves, but . . .”

“Ah,” she says, her expression clearing a little. “So you do intend to stay as my husband.”

His brow furrows. “Sorry, I thought that was implied.”

“I just wanted to be quite sure that’s what you were saying,” she says promptly.

“Oh,” he says. “Then, uh, yes, I had intended to stay, you know, _here_.” He hesitates. “If you’ll have me.”

“Why?” she says, and he thinks he detects tension in the set of her shoulders.

He blinks in surprise. “Why?”

“Why?” she repeats, folding her hands tightly in her lap.

“Well,” he says, “because . . . I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“Finally!” she bursts out, making him jump in surprise. “Was that so hard?” She shakes her head. “You really should have led with that.”

He doesn’t know how to respond for a moment. “I thought you’d be more swayed by knowing I could keep the dagger safe.”

“If I were simply deciding whether to accept the alliance with Persia, yes,” she says primly. “But in deciding what to do about this marriage . . .”

He stares at her a long moment, and then grins in realization. “You were very eager to hear me say that, weren’t you?”

“You flatter yourself,” she mutters, but her eyes tell a different story. As does the fact that when he takes her hand to pull her over to sit on the edge of his bed, she comes very willingly.

“Sometimes,” he agrees cheerfully.

“You Persians,” she sighs, her expression a mix of feigned irritation and fondness. “Always so arrogant.” But the effect is somewhat spoiled by the way she can’t seem to keep herself from glancing down at their joined hands, and the spot where her hip is pressed against his.

Emboldened, he teases, “You really ought to be nicer about Persians. Given that you’re likely to spend the rest of your life with one.”

She raises one imperious eyebrow, though her lips twitch with a suppressed smile. “You seem very confident that I’m going to accept your proposal.”

“There must be some reason you can’t take your eyes off me.”

She stares at him a long moment, and then she leans forward to press her lips to his. It’s brief, but that doesn’t keep her from looking extremely pleased with herself when she leans back. “Yes, I suppose you might be right.”

But she barely has time to finish her sentence before Dastan is pulling her into his arms to kiss her again, relishing the surprised little sound she makes and the way she feels under his hands. She kisses him back with more enthusiasm than skill, but that is fine by Dastan. Anything is fine by Dastan, as long as she’s here with him, letting him stay by her side—as long as she’s not dying for the dagger, and as long as he’s not riding back to Nasaf without her.

“You know,” he says with a smile when they break the kiss, “you haven’t actually said what you think about my staying.”

She glances down at the hand she still has on his chest and the hand he still has around her waist. “It wasn’t clear?” she teases.

“I’d just really like to hear you say it,” he grins.

All the teasing goes out of her face then, leaving her gazing at him with a soft expression he’s never seen on her face. “Stay, Dastan,” she says quietly. “I rather suspect I’ve fallen in love with you as well.”

“Good,” he says. “I’ve grown fond of the cool, clear water from your famed wells. I wasn’t looking forward to leaving them behind.”

She rolls her eyes and kisses him again.

o.o.o

Three weeks later Dastan is waving goodbye to his father and brothers as the Persian convoy leaves Alamut’s main gate. The investigation of the Hassansin’s lair is done, but there is still much to do back in Nasaf to find out how widespread Nizam’s corruption went among his allies, and to look into Nizam’s land holdings to see if he was hiding any secrets. So although the royal family is sorry to be splitting up so soon, they all understand the necessity.

It shouldn’t be a long separation, though; Garsiv is sure that his military campaigning will bring him through the area some time soon, and Tus will return in a month to start the building of the fortress (and to bring Dastan his things from the palace in Nasaf; though Dastan has been cleared to be out of bed for two weeks, he still can’t ride a horse quite yet, so he won’t be visiting Nasaf for a time).

And Dastan won’t be the only Persian left in the city. A company of foot soldiers has been left behind to protect Alamut; when the fortress is complete, they will be the first soldiers stationed there, with many more to come. And Dastan’s own company has all been given a choice: return to Nasaf with his blessing, or stay in Alamut to be his personal guard. About half his men have chosen to stay, including Bis, who says, “After all the crazy places I’ve followed you to, staying in this beautiful city is a pretty easy sacrifice to make for our friendship.” Bis and a few other men are now assisting Dastan in training Alamut’s soldiers, to make sure the city is not successfully invaded again.

In the three weeks since the battle, much has changed in Alamut. The repairs to the outer walls are completed, and the garden where the final showdown with Nizam occurred is looking much better. Farah had the clever idea to designate it the Persian Peace Garden, to commemorate the new alliance with Persia, and reserve it for the use of the Persian royal family. This means no one will ever go in it, for Sharaman, Tus and Garsiv, even when in the city, will likely not want to spend a great deal of time in the place where Nizam died. The hole down to the Sand Glass chamber is being covered by a large pavilion built in the Persian style, and Dastan visits occasionally when he’s missing Nasaf.

But he has very little time to do so, or to be homesick, for there’s been a surprising change in his life as well: Tamina has made him a guardian. “He knows all our secrets and has risked his life to protect the dagger,” she points out when other guardians complain. “He’s already a guardian in all but name. And now he’ll have the access and authority he needs for protecting the dagger.” Dastan personally finds it a bit silly for them to designate him a high-ranking priest of their religion when he’s not even a practitioner of that religion, but Tamina would brook no argument. And honestly it’s not so bad, being a guardian; all the meetings are pretty dull, but some of the ceremonies and rites are actually kind of soothing.

Not to mention . . . Dastan’s never been a religious man, but he did just risk his life over the belief that something or someone would have destroyed the world if the dagger had been misused. So he thinks it’s fair to say that he’s more open to the possibility of a higher power than he used to be.

So between his religious duties, his military duties, and his political duties—and, of course, spending as much time as possible with Tamina—he really hasn’t had time to think about his family leaving. But now, as he stands and watches them ride away from him, something twists in his chest, stronger than he would have expected.

He tries to keep his somber mood from Tamina, but she can read him too well for that. She glances at him, then back out at the caravan leaving Alamut, and comments quietly, “I’ll miss them too.”

Dastan looks over at her, surprised.

“Well, not Garsiv,” she amends, and Dastan snorts. “And Tus did try to have me killed that one time.”

“I don’t know if you noticed the six or seven hundred times he apologized for that,” Dastan says drily, “but I think he’s sorry.”

Tamina ignores that statement. “But I will miss your father. He is, I believe, a good man.” She slips an arm around his waist, her gaze still fixed out over the caravan. “Perhaps you learned that from him. Although from what he tells me, you were a good man before he ever took you in.”

“So many compliments to the Persian royal family,” he teases, even as he pulls her closer to his side. “Where’s the woman I married?”

She looks up at him, a smile playing over her lips. “She’s learned a few things since the wedding.” But then her expression grows somber again, and she glances again at the retreating backs of the Persians. “Are you sorry not to be going with them?” she asks quietly.

“Yes,” he says honestly, and she stiffens. “But I’d be more sorry to be leaving you behind.”

She relaxes. “You do say very pretty things sometimes, Dastan.” But then she hesitates. “I am sorry, though, that you got put into a position of having to choose between me and them.”

They’ve had variations on this conversation before; Dastan had been surprised to learn that for all of Tamina’s confidence, she can be rather self-doubting when it comes to relationships—including friendships—which are a concept with which she has very little experience.

“I’m still going to see them,” he reminds her, “and serve the empire from here.”

She nods, then turns to face him fully and slide her other arm around him as well, her moment of self-doubt over. “I’m glad you’re still here,” she says simply, which for her is quite a statement; she struggles to express sincere affection aloud, though she has no problem showing it, and he’s learned to cherish the times she does it. So he grins and leans down to kiss her, glad that the alcove they’re standing in hides them from all prying eyes. They’ve already shocked the palace staff and the rest of the priesthood enough in the last few weeks.

“So am I,” he says when they break the kiss, and stand with their arms around each other, his chin resting on the top of her head.

Perhaps it’s the sadness of parting with his family, but he finds himself in an unusually philosophical mood. “Do you ever think,” he asks, “about how close we came to not quite making it to this moment? How many ways it could have gone wrong, with Nizam rewriting history, or one of us ending up dead? Or you and I not being here together now? We were very lucky.”

Her arms tighten around him a moment. “Not lucky,” she disagrees, then leans back to look up at him. “I know you don’t believe in this, but I believe . . . I _know_ you were meant to come to Alamut. Your destiny was to marry me and protect the dagger.”

“Well, half of that is a good destiny,” Dastan grumbles, but he’s smiling. She lays her head on his shoulder again, and he plays with the ends of her hair and thinks for a few moments. “It’s not that I don’t believe in destiny, exactly,” he says finally. “It’s that I believe we choose our own destinies.” He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “And this—staying here with you—this is what I choose. And what I’ll keep choosing, for the rest of my life.”

She leans back to look up at him again, a fond smile on her face. “As I said,” she says, “you do sometimes say very pretty things.”

He smiles modestly. “Well, I worry that if I don’t, you’ll leave me to die in the desert again.”

She laughs and rolls her eyes at the same time. “But the rest of the time, you say absolutely ridiculous things.”

“And yet you agreed to stay married to me,” he points out. “So who’s the real fool here?”

She laughs again and steps back. “You, I believe, because you agreed to be prince of Alamut, which means it’s time for you to come with me to the Council meeting. Which will last all morning.”

Dastan groans and lets his head fall back. “You’re lucky I like you,” he says, and with the threat of another Council meeting looming, he thinks he’s probably only half teasing about that.

But when he looks back at her, she’s giving him a look that clears away all that irritation—one of sweet, sincere, and unexpectedly open affection. “I'm certainly thankful for it,” she says.

She is still awfully good at catching him off-guard. “Well, likewise,” he says when he’s found words again. “About you, I mean.”

She smiles at him, and he smiles back. And, hand in hand, the prince and princess of Alamut walk back into their palace.

o.o.o

fin


End file.
